Wanted
by Cassandragon
Summary: An Elder Scrolls fan story set between the events of Oblivion and Skyrim concerning an Imperial City merchant's terrible mistake and the events that follow.
1. Prologue

_4E 172, 22nd Hearthfire_

 _Business has been going well recently. Many travelers are visiting on their way through the Imperial City. This morning we had an excellent sale, a woman on her way to Skyrim stopped by and bought the light fur armor, the set from up north, around the Bruma area. She seemed very satisfied with it, said it would serve well until she got far and that it was a better quality than she expected this far south. Of course, it helps that my wonderful salesman of a brother pushed it for all it was worth, which I think did wonders to make her more accepting of it. Best sale of the week!_

 _I expect to see more of the same; another wave of travelers comes in every day, and eventually word of our stock will spread. Many redguards, elves, argonians, and imperials appear to be uprooting and passing through here, no doubt because of the recent events in the east and in the other provinces. There has been much unrest recently, so I am not surprised, but I did not know that the city was such a beacon for travelers. The palace is a big attraction, I suppose. People from all over Tamriel go there to encourage or complain at the poor emperor. I am sure he is trying his best to solve our problems, and, divines willing, everything will settle down in a couple of years._

 _Right now nothing is much settled at all, even here at the heart of the empire. The poor on the waterfront have gotten quite rowdy as of late, and I have heard rumors of increasing numbers of murders. Myself and most locals have been avoiding the area, but visitors do not know better and I suspect that causes many fights. Everyone there has always been lawless, the guards struggled with the waterfront for eras. I am worried that the unrest will spread. People are nervous, edgy. All they talk about is the invasion, and I suspect that something of note may happen soon. There have been brawls in the Talos Plaza and in many bars. Usually the guards are there to take care of everything. With all the travelers passing through, though, I worry they may not be enough. The guards can only do so much._


	2. 1

The sweet jangle of bells, the exit of a customer. A quill scratched on parchment. The khajiit seated behind the counter gave a raspy chuckle, his eyes not leaving the scrawl of ink left by his pen as it whispered out calculations across the page.

"What?" Another khajiit, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in puzzlement, peered at his brother from behind one of the many wooden shelves that filled the small shop.

"You should have been a bard," purred the record-keeper, his amused voice thick with the accent of the cat-folk. "Your tongue is glazed gold. You could sell sand to the desert."

The salesman laughed; his voice hadn't a trace of his heritage. "You'd make a decent bard yourself, Ri'kel. You've got to be good, with all that writing you do."

"No, Jashri, my pen is not for poetry. And my voice is fit only for the songs of our people, and I can not play an instrument. You know very well that business is my craft." Smiling, he set down his quill and rolled up his papers into scrolls, packing them carefully into a small box. "Besides, travel does not suit me, and bards are traveling all the time. I am well settled here."

Jashri nodded, adjusting several disorderly items on the shelves. "Of course, brother." He shot a glance at the hourglass on the counter. "All right, I think we're done. We can close up shop now." Ri'kel nodded, his scroll box snapping shut as he rose from his chair, gathering the few papers that would not fit inside. "Are we going to the tavern tonight? You missed last Fredas."

"I will miss this time too, I am afraid," sighed Ri'kel, hefting the thick wooden case. "The shipments arrive tomorrow, and there are still many calculations to finish before we are prepared. You go, have fun. Catch the news for me, will you?"

"Of course." The pair headed for the door, Jashri holding it wide for his brother while the bells hanging from the doorknob chimed a cheerful farewell. It shut behind them with a crisp clack of wood and stone, the lock popping as Jashri keyed it into place. Ri'kel's gaze drifted idly over the army of ramshackle stalls that cluttered the red-lit marketplace, their makeshift cloth signs glowing in the wan light of the setting sun. These stores of the traveling merchants did not often stay long, and mostly existed for their owners to earn a few septims on their journeys to other lands. A few salesmen still hawked their wares at the late hour, aiming to snare adventurers that sometimes roamed the market for arms and armor late at night.

The rich glow of the sun quickly dimmed as it extinguished itself on the tall buildings of the Imperial City, casting the alleyways into darkness and shading the streets in gray pallor. Box nestled securely in his arms, Ri'kel slipped down a side street and headed out of the city, readying himself for the night's work.

Jashri padded down the cobbled streets, tucking the store key into his pocket, the corners of his lips lifted in a faint smile. He loved to smile, and this week had gone quite well. He glided through the streets like a ghost, his footsteps mere whispers and light fur glowing whitely in the shadows. Soon torches would be lit, and he would join the people of the city in the warmth of the tavern. The Elven Gardens district loomed near already, his favorite eatery beckoning him inside. The tip of his tail flicked in anticipation.

Hinges whined softly as the door eased open, conversation, music, warmth, and delicious scents bubbling out with the triangle of light that dribbled over the cobbles. Jashri's stomach flopped and gurgled as the simmering smell of cooking meats wafted through the air. The door bumped closed. Warm browns of wood and clothing and clay painted the crowded room, its diverse people spread out along the bars and counters, clustered around tables, muttering in corners. A breton girl by the back wall piped cheerful tunes on a bone flute. Flames danced golden in hearths and the lamps lining the walls. Jashri stood still for a moment, drinking in the pleasant surroundings, then headed to the bar directly across the room where a busty woman behind the counter polished a tankard. She flashed a dazzling false smile when she heard the approach of footsteps, the lines of her face smoothing as she recognized him. The smile softened, reformed into something more genuine. "Hello, Jashri! No Ri'kel? Again? That man runs himself ragged, if you ask me." The dark curls framing her face bounced as she wagged her head back and forth, tongue clicking against her teeth. "Well, what'll it be for you today?"

"Beef, potatoes. . . and an ale, I suppose."

"You got it," she grinned, procuring a stick of charcoal and a leaf of rough, grainy paper. She scribbled down a few words and tucked the order neatly into a pocket of her apron. "Go ahead and have a seat, someone'll bring it when it's ready. You know the drill." With a short nod, she bustled off into the kitchen through the little door behind the bar.

Jashri relaxed into his usual seat, a table in the corner against the wall. The chair opposite him sat sadly empty. This table was in an excellent position, one of the few places in the crowded room that allowed security of conversation while still easily listening in the conversations of others. Of course, this was the perfect setup for overhearing news and gossip, for the tavern was a clean and popular one that travelers were advised to visit. They often spoke of events in their homelands. Best of all, the table remained within hearing distance of the bar, where everyone had to order and many remained to eat and imbibe, perching upon sturdy but uncomfortable wooden stools. Jashri leaned back, let his eyes drift shut in the warmth and comfort of his soft leather-padded chair, let his body relax after the long day. His ears remained perked, swiveled atop his head soaking up the information that poured in from all directions. Eventually he settled on eavesdropping on an interesting conversation about Morrowind, discussed animatedly between a pair of rough elven voices, and let it seep into his mind. Ri'kel would like to hear such news.

Footsteps pattered near, the scent of warm meat wafting to the khajiit's nostrils as a clay plate tapped down onto the table, followed by the clunk of a mug. His stomach's eagerness prompted Jashri's eyes to pop open, and he beheld his server scurrying off to another table and a steaming red slab laid out before him, surrounded by little rectangular chopped potatoes roasted golden. He sipped at his drink, willed the knots in his shoulders to greater relaxation, and savored each juicy bite of his dinner, ears pricked for other interesting conversations. The warm, soft glow of the golden lamps and the food in his belly lulled him into dull peacefulness, the cheerful pipes threatening to distract him further from the talk of events around Tamriel. He tried to keep his gaze down on his food and plate to keep his eyes from wandering and dragging his mind with them, but as the door opened, he couldn't stop himself from glancing up at the people who walked in.

This time, as the old hinges breathed their welcome, a small party of nords strutted noisily in, the leader booming a request for beer in a voice like a bass drum. His voice carried remarkably well, much to Jashri's delight. Nords seemed not to visit as often as other races, and these could have news that was rarely carried to the Imperial Province. Even if they were to sit all the way across the room, he would be able to hear their leader's speech clearly. Better yet, they perched themselves on the sturdy barstools and began to chatter as they waited for their drinks. Jashri's ears pricked in delighted anticipation.

"So, what do you think of those Thalmor?" A scrawny man with a thin, reedy voice questioned the leader. His light hair was the darkest of the party, a rich syrup color streaked through with flashes of iconic nordic blonde.

The third man answered instead, so softly that Jashri had to listen carefully to pick out the words. "They're doing fairly well for themselves, I think. They have allies. They took Hammerfell and captured two cities here in Cyrodiil. This place may be in danger, that's why people are scrambling all over like frightened rabbits." Drinks arrived, frothy metal tankards placed before each of the men. The soft-voiced one flicked a coin into the server's palm.

Their leader scowled, his thick brow squeezing into a straw-colored caterpillar. "I don't think so much of 'em. Don't know why you think they're so great. Their friends, too." His deep voice growled like thunder. "Elves are weak. And what else have they got, some littler elves and desert kitties? Hah." Beer slurped noisily down the man's throat. "As soon as they try to take on some real men, some _nords_ , we'll send 'em running right back home to their little island to dress in pretty silks and have tea parties all day." He snorted, gulping down the rest of the contents of his mug and thumping it heavily onto the bar, beckoning a barmaid to refill it. She hurried over. "Y'know what I think? They only got this far because those fools in the palace won't send anyone out to go crush 'em, like they should."

"I think you underestimate them," murmured the third man in his windy voice. "They took Hammerfell with ease. They don't need to use force or large armies to take over. Look how easily they've won the support of other elves. Their strength is in their tactics and intellect."

"Typical magician mumbo-jumbo," the leader grunted, waving a hand dismissively. "Battles are what win wars. Weaselly elven bastards aren't going to win any wars with an army of tiny tree fairies." His refill arrived, and he quaffed it like he'd never had anything to drink in his life, thudding the heavy mug back onto the counter. "We're better, smarter, and stronger. But there's no point arguing. Cowardly magic-loving milk-drinkers don't have the guts to step their dainty little slippered feet on the tundra."

The dark-haired man frowned thoughtfully. "Well, the other races with them might want to fight nords, right? Aren't the redguards angry at us? We didn't help them at all when they were invaded."

"And they have the khajiit," whispered the third man, a glint in his eye. "They are great friends of the Thalmor, and often make skilled assassins."

The leader made a choking noise in his throat, somehow managing not to splutter out a mouthful of his fourth or fifth beer. His round, pale face was scrunched and wrinkled in disgust, alcohol, warmth, and temper beginning to blotch it red. "Bah! Don't even mention the bastards' damned pets. Hate 'em. Those furry asses are only good as slaves. They prob'ly just wash the elves' clothes and set their fancy tables, not much else."

Jashri's ears flicked back, his tail twitched agitatedly and he willed it to be still. He knew he was offended for no good reason. So what if an anonymous nord didn't like khajiit, what was it to him? He kept his jaws clamped shut.

"Oh?" chuckled the windy-voiced whispering man. His dark eyes glinted with amusement as he ran his finger around the rim of his tankard.

"Yeah," the leader boomed. "For once those dark elf dogs got something right. Gods-damned cat people ought to be pets. What's so special 'bout 'em, anyway? They're animals! Damn empire won't let us keep 'em in their rightful place. Not that anyone would want one, anyway. Only half as obedient as a good hound, and not even half as smart. Oughta just cage 'em all up and throw 'em in mines. Don't even know why the elves bothered getting 'em. Too stupid to even put up a fight." The leader's tomato-red face glistened with sweaty fervor. Windy-voice smirked at dark-hair, who looked a bit taken aback. Jashri's muscles were no longer relaxed, the warm atmosphere now hot and unpleasant. He suppressed a growl.

"Back in my hometown, they've got it right. Smelly ol' dark elves and beasts out of the way of real, civilized people. Stay on the good streets and you don't even see the filthy bastards. 'S like there's no one but nords in the world. Cats, we don't even let 'em near the city, and damn good of us not to. All they do is sell skooma and breed fleas and foul up the towns with their fur and stench. Can't stand it here, where they let animals run around like they own the place. I can't wait to get back to Skyrim." The nord shot a watery-eyed, malevolent glance at Jashri. "At least there, people lock up their pets."

Chair legs grated against the floor as Jashri abruptly surged to his feet. His fists clenched, jaw set, ears laid back, tail lashed fiercely at the air behind him. The other two nords turned, their leader giving a booming laugh.

"Look at this bastard! Ha!" Windy-voice smirked, dark-hair slightly uneasy beside him. "Hey, widdle kitty. Did I hurt the poor widdle kitty's feelings?"

"Stop," Jashri snarled, his heart thundering in his ears. "Have some decency."

"Kitty thinks he can tell real men what to do!" The leader gave another hearty laugh. His large, pale fists rose to the level of his ruddy face. "Come on, cat, let's teach you where animals like you belong. Flea-bitten bastard." A meaty fist sailed through the air and burrowed itself in Jashri's stomach, air fleeing from his lungs. He gasped, tears of pain burning at his eyes as he staggered back from the unexpected blow. Blinking them back, he straightened, glared into the nord's hate-filled ice blue red-rimmed eyes. The man was big, muscular. Probably got into bar brawls often, likely won them. His short nose was crooked, as if it had once been broken. Sweat shined on the piggy, rage-contorted face. Jashri growled. He knew this was a mistake, but the throbbing of his heartbeat in his ears and the adrenaline rushing through his veins wouldn't let him back down.

Jashri raised his fists. The nord let another punch fly. The khajiit ducked, backed slightly out of the way as he caught his breath. Beyond the nord's big body he could see the other patrons shifting in their chairs, some gaping, firelight reflecting from wide eyes. He sidestepped another clumsy blow, heard it whistle by his ear. At the bar, the other two nords watched just as interestedly, a malicious grin on windy-voice's face, dark-hair's mouth open in an "o" of surprise. The next strike clipped his shoulder, pushed him slightly off-balance, and he took a step back to brace himself, swinging reflexively at the offending arm and, much to the surprise of both fighters, connecting with it. The nord snorted, recovering quickly from the strike. Jashri flinched back as a fist whistled by his face. He could hear cheers and jeers; they sounded far away. The nord let another blow fly and the khajiit slipped under it, loosing a staccato of punches against the man's belly. They did not hurt him, but they did annoy him, the already red face darkening. He bellowed like a bull. Jashri ducked quickly to avoid another fist, moving more quickly as he became used to the pain in his middle. His confident retaliation swung wide as the nord stepped back with more agility than his build suggested him capable of. Jashri blinked back stars at a hammering blow to the head and hissed. His fangs glinted fiercely in the torchlight, but he was hurt and tiring and certain the nord could see the fear in his eyes. He was on the defensive. This time, a warning bellow from the great pale beast as his arm swung towards Jashri from the side. He skipped out of the way, his head aching terribly, down to the teeth. The pain made concentrating difficult. More minor blows connected with his him, glancing from his arms and shoulders. Leaping, he buffeted the nord around the head. His knuckles collided with an eye, a nose, a jaw. The toughness of the nord's skull jarred his hands, fists loosening slightly with each blow. Surprise had stopped the nord from responding as soon as he could. Jashri swung once more at the square jaw.

There was a faint tug at his hand, a claw snagging. It slid sideways and down. The nord gave a deep bass grumble, pushing the khajiit away. Collapsed. Warmth clung to Jashri's fingers, a foul metallic smell stung in his nose, the hum and buzz of patrons struck his pounding head with tiny stones. A snake of panic wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing as the wooden walls of the room crept towards him. The smoldering air suffocated him, catching in his lungs. The door sprung wide for him, he gasped for breath in the cold night air. Behind him, a muffled shout, cut off as the door slammed shut. The world flashed by. His feet barely brushed the cobbles. Marble city walls loomed over him, confining and malevolently gray in the night. Buildings flicked past. The reinforced doors crept ever closer. Not quickly enough. The warmth on his fingers burned like fire.

The gates' gaping maw allowed him passage. The straight marble path stretched over the calm, star-strewn water. Behind, shouts and yelling, swords and clatter. He dared not look back. One foot in front of the other. Tap tap. Stones over the water. Wind rushing in his ears.

 _Have to get away._

He breathed in fire and needles. He could see the grass at the end of the bridge, trees beyond. The woods embraced him, but he knew they were following. He could smell their steel and leather, hear their rough shouts.

 _I've done a very bad thing._

Thick bark pillars stretched forever on every side. Except behind. Behind was only guards and guilt and city. Black trees sprouted from a lake of shadow, silvery grass like weedy banks, brushing and catching at the fabric of his pants. His legs screamed for rest, his chest convulsed for air. It came in ragged sobs. The clanking behind him sounded closer and closer. He sped up. Bars of trees flicked past.

It felt like hours. Icy air and fiery fear battled in the khajiit's lungs. Snakes squeezed his chest and wriggled through his innards. Weapons were forged atop his punished head. His stumbling feet flopped on jelly legs. Sounds behind kept him going. The pinprick lights of the heavens danced overhead. He ran straight.

Cool air finally extinguished the flame of panic in his chest, his heart shrinking with cold. The fevered flashes of world cleared, crystallized. Jashri shivered. An icy lump pained his chest. Thoughts trickled into his mind, tried to quell his panic.

 _I'm in big trouble._

Not a reassuring thought. His insides squirmed. His feet pounded at the ground, jarring his head and legs. He blinked, trying to keep his thoughts clear despite the pain. Trees advanced, marched by. He leaped over a root. There was a clatter of armor behind him, his heart jumping at the sound.

 _They're still after me._

His legs were beginning to grow numb.

 _Good thing I can see in the dark._

His heart thumped slightly faster as he realized a way out. The guards couldn't see in the dark, they could follow him because he had run in a straight line. A small burst of energy let him turn out of the way, duck into the shadows of a tree. He was ready to chance a look behind.

A party of guards stumbled through the forest, picking their way through what to them could only be a night made of ink. Their armor shone in the pale splotches of moonlight that filtered through the trees, clattered loudly as they tripped over obstacles hiding in the dark grass. They shouted and swore in general confusion, bumbling by Jashri's hiding place, their steel boots crashing through the undergrowth. His apprehension faded as their voices did, growing more distant.

Jashri thumped against his tree and slumped to the ground, quietly disgorging his dinner. Ignoring the foul taste in his mouth, he examined his shaking hand in a feeble shaft of moonlight. The fingers were dark. He looked away, bile rising once more in his throat, and tried to calm his ragged panting and retching. Tears of fear, or weariness, of pain, of guilt stabbed at the corners of his eyes. He trembled; uncertain, sick, tired. The ice that clutched his chest froze him. Breaths still would not come without a fight, and each one stabbed at his lungs with a million needles.

 _Ri'kel will know what to do._

The feeble thought gave him just enough energy to heave himself back to his feet. Stars, real and imagined, spun around him, and he put out a hand to steady himself against the tree, feeling his empty stomach churn once more. His throat tasted sour and foul. He slunk deliberately through the shadows, exhaustion and regret holding him to a slow pace. His skull pounded, his mind numb and raw.

 _Ri'kel always knows what to do. . ._


	3. 2

A flickering golden glow pierced the forest of darkness. In the woods, in the secluded house, in the study, a light was merrily burning. Wisps of smoke lingered in the cool air, curling gray against the black trees and the black perforated velvet of the sky. The friendly lamp attracted the pale khajiit, stumbling toward the beacon like a clumsy wounded moth. He slumped beside the back door, leaning against a barrel and the lovingly hewn planks of the wall. He curled around himself, knees tucked to his chin, legs held fast in his arms, tail binding his ankles. A dark mist spattered a pant leg. His tormented stomach flopped yet again, and he looked away. All he had the strength to do was sit dumbly beside his house, eyes gazing distantly into the forest, mind and muscles weary. He felt like an old rag, twisted and violently shaken after the day's toil, returning limp and gray to his place. His mind replayed the night over and over against his will, torturing him. Painful sobs racked his frame and set his skull to aching again. He did not try to staunch the flow of tears. Already his lip was torn to ribbons from biting back cries of pain and fear, it deserved no more mistreatment. Needling as it was to the head and lungs, perhaps his muddled mind could be set in order by relieving the pent-up fear and guilt.

With the last gasps of his emotion, Jashri uncurled himself from his ball and breathed great gulps of the night air. Was the night almost over? Had he not run for hours? His eyes flicked to the window, glowing with amber light. Ri'kel was not in the habit of staying up late. A glance at the sky showed the moons not far from their peak in the heavens. Just past midnight. It seemed later. Slowly, gingerly, Jashri heaved his body up from the ground, the barrel steadying him as he swayed and lights danced before his eyes. He trembled with weakness, tried feebly to steady himself. Quietly his hand wrapped around the knob of the door and eased it open, and he walked into a wave of warm air, letting the door click shut behind him. The hall was dark, but a thin bar of light streamed from the study door where it hung slightly ajar. Within, a fire crackled in the hearth, the beads of Ri'kel's abacus clicking along with it as he hunched over his desk, scribbling calculations onto a strip of parchment. Inventories and charts were strewn across the table. Jashri wobbled into the room, steadied himself against the wall. He still panted slightly for breath, his chest tight.

"Ri'kel. . ." his voice was weak, wavered and broke. His brother's ears flicked up and he turned briskly in his chair. The little braid on the side of his head swung in front of one of his concerned eyes but no move was made to brush it aside.

"Ri'kel, I've done a terrible thing –" gasped Jashri, his body shaking and tense.

"Sit down. You are not well." Ri'kel gestured insistently at the threadbare armchair beside the fireplace. His voice was colored with alarm. Jashri wearily sunk into it. Ri'kel faced him, lips tight with worry but eyes and ears alert and prepared to hear what his disheveled brother had to say.

"I got in a fight at the tavern." Jashri's voice strengthened as warmth seeped into his muscles and forced out the night's chill. His heavy heart felt no more comfortable. Fingers twitched. He glanced down at his hand where it lay limply in his lap. The fingers were coated red with guilt. He swallowed. "I didn't mean to, but I think I killed him." He trembled once more, ears drooped, teeth sank fiercely into his ragged lip. The throbbing in his skull heightened once more.

Ri'kel's eyes closed tightly. He sat in silence, many moments slipping by with only the crackling of the fire. Sand ceased to rustle through the hourglass, but he did not stir to reset it. A sigh hissed from Ri'kel; the longest, weightiest, most disappointed sigh Jashri had ever heard. His whole being seemed to pour into that release of breath. Jashri's heavy lump of a heart somehow managed to contort itself further. Ri'kel's eyes opened. "You sure have gotten yourself into a mess this time, haven't you, brother?" His voice was weary, like an old man's. He turned back to his desk and procured a fresh strip of parchment, scribbling down several figures. "Murder," he muttered under his breath, "fleeing the guards. Did you pay for your meal?"

"What?" Of all the questions his brother could have asked, this was the one Jashri least expected.

"Did you pay, before you left?" His voice was sad and gentle.

"No."

"That will probably be added to your bounty as well. Theft." The quill scratched at the page. A smaller sigh escaped from Ri'kel and he ran a hand across the side of his head and through his short-cropped mane. "Well, we do not have the money to pay that right now. You are going to have to turn yourself in."

Jashri's heart leapt to action, throwing itself against the confining bars of his ribcage. "No, no, I can't. I can't go to prison, Ri'kel. Please. Give me time, let me think. I can't –"

"Sshhh. . ." Ri'kel hissed soothingly at his brother. "We can discuss this later. Go to bed. I have to finish these calculations." He turned the waiting hourglass and lifted his quill one more in his ink-stained fingers. Jashri glanced at his own fingers. They were stained for a far more terrible reason. He remained slumped in the chair, his fear and nervous energy ebbing away as his exhaustion and his comfortable surroundings calmed his thoughts. His head still ached. Lifting himself gently from the chair, he padded across the dark hallway to the little room with the tub and washbasin. Jashri plucked a match from the box on the counter beside the basin and lit a small lamp on the wall. The little room illuminated with the warmth of the flickering orange light.

The basin was already filled with water, its surface smooth, glassy, and clear. Jashri peered into the square of mirror above it. Sticks and other forest debris stuck from his snarled fur in all directions. Bile and tears had dried into dirty tracks along the sides of his mouth and eyes, forming dark crusts. His face was deeply creased below the eyes from exhaustion. A bulging scab adorned the light brown fur of his head, caking behind his ear. He had been hit harder than he'd thought, hard enough to break the skin. He examined the wound as best he could in the small mirror of the inadequately lit room and found no serious damage. His lower lip was pink and raw, slightly swollen and covered in tiny dots of scab from the punctures of his teeth. He looked a fright.

His bloodstained fingers dipped, trembling, into the cooling water. Evidence of his guilt scrubbed off faintly pink into the clear, pure liquid. Slowly he worked his way to his face, to the nasty wound on his head. The water acted as a restorative, clearing some of the dirt from his mind as well as his fur. He sighed into the mirror. He looked much better, but he needed to see himself below the head.

The soft soles of his felty shoes were nearly worn away – they were for the smooth wood floors of the indoors, not for fleeing across cobbles and woods. He peeled them off to the sight of many blisters. The ones that had torn stung at the exposure to the air. A misty stain of blood spattered a leg of his pants, darkened to near black on the blue fabric. He shuddered. They ought to be burned. Hesitantly, he lifted his shirt to examine the consequences of that first punch to the stomach. A dark bruise, the size of an orange, spread right between the halves of his ribcage where they separated. It was such a dark blackish-purple that he could see the outline without needing to brush his fur out of the way. No wonder he had felt so sick, had found it so difficult to draw breath. He hissed softly as he ran a finger gently along the ragged edges of the bruise. His fear and panic had kept his from realizing how much it hurt. Gingerly, he felt the edges of his ribs. Nothing broken. Everything, however, was sore. Groaning, he capped the light to put it out and hobbled out of the room in the dark. The study across the hall was plunged in blackness, leaving the hallway dark save for the moonlight streaming through its window. Jashri shut the study door, plunging it into full blackness, and felt his way to the cool metal knob of the bedroom door.

He slipped into the room, stripped to his undergarments, and gingerly crawled into his narrow bed. The closed curtains of the little high-set window glowed gently with the light of the stars and moons. Jashri pulled the warm furs around him, glad for their security. Ri'kel was bundled in his identical bed across the room, facing the wall with his back to his brother. Jashri let out a gentle sigh, trying to quiet his fretful mind. He concentrated on the soft insect song that filtered through from outside. Slowly, the night claimed his consciousness, and he drifted to sleep.

A closing door woke Jashri with a start. His ears perched rigid atop his head as he lay stiffly on his little bed. Light speared through his eyes into his head. Their lids squeezed shut. Every muscle in his body ached dully; he had never run so hard or fast before, had never been beat up.

Ri'kel's soft voice floated down the hall. His light, quick footsteps mingled with the heavy plod of boots on the wooden floor. "Please, have a seat." A chair scraped the floor. "Remind me, what do you trade, again?" Mercantile business. A deep orcish voice began to speak. Jashri's mind begin to wander.

After a time, the boots thudded down the hallway. Towards the bedroom. Jashri stiffened. Surely any travelers had been warned to be on the lookout for him, to turn him in.

"Ah, wrong way, that is a private room. The washroom is this way."

"Oh, sorry." The boots scraped, turned, thumped back the other way. Jashri let out a held breath in relief. He wasn't caught. He tried to relax again, but his muscles trembled, and his breath caught as he tried to slow it. He bit his lip, breathing gently until the adrenaline rush subsided. When the sound of his heart no longer filled his ears, he listened again, carefully, to the goings-on within the house.

"So we have a deal, then?" came Ri'kel's gentle purr.

"Yep. We'll bring it straight to the store for you now, if you'd like."

"I will meet you there in a couple of hours. I have some other business that must be put in order first."

"Of course." Chairs rattled against wooden floor and feet stepped towards the front of the house. "I'll be seeing you in a few hours, then." The door clicked open and thumped shut, and the building was silent.

Jashri relaxed.

A faint sigh drifted to his ears and footsteps shuffled lightly to the bedroom door and creaked it open. Seriousness was settled on Ri'kel's face as he peered into the room at Jashri. Jashri smiled faintly. "Thank you, brother."

"Jashri, you can not hide here forever." His voice was insistent, but filled with concern. "The guards will come to look for you someday and I will have to let them in. You need to go turn yourself in."

"I need some time to think." Ri'kel frowned. He turned and clicked the door shut once more, his tail flicking behind him. Jashri closed his eyes. His head ached. His brain ached. He did not want to go to jail. Painstakingly, he lifted his weary body from the mattress, stiff limbs screaming in protest of his every movement. His fingers ran across his face, stretching the skin of his cheeks down in wrinkly folds until he let the pressure off and his pelt snapped back into place.

 _What in Oblivion am I going to do?_

Reluctant eyelids slowly peeled back to let in the piercing sunlight that streamed down from the tiny window, illuminating little floaty dust motes as they danced across the bar of light. Jashri's tail flicked gently as his eyes adjusted to the light in the modest room, its natural tan woods plain and dry. It felt confining. He stepped out into the hall, his bare blistered feet soothed by the cool smooth wood of the floor. He padded to the kitchen, where his twin brother sat at the small dining table and gazed vacantly out a window, the food on his plate barely touched. Behind those staring eyes, Jashri knew, whirled a world of thoughts. He slipped into the kitchen area, gathering some bread and fruit, and eased into another chair, peering out the window as he ate and pondered his next actions. The dark and weighty thoughts troubled him. The woods beyond the glass looked very calm and inviting by comparison. "Ri'kel?"

Ri'kel's eyes snapped into focus. "Hm?"

"I think I need to camp in the woods for a while."

Ri'kel leveled an iron gaze at his brother. "Why?"

"I can't think here, I'm too nervous. You told me already that I'll be in danger here, if the guards come I'll have no chance to think or prepare. So I need to hide in the forest and calm down and think."

A small piece of bread wobbled around Ri'kel's plate, propelled by his finger. His eyes lost some of their focus and he was silent for a few moments. A short sigh escaped his lips. "Well. . . okay. What would you like me to do?" His every word was reluctant.

"Could you visit, and bring food, maybe, at the end of the day?"

"Yes, I could do that." Ri'kel's gaze flicked to an hourglass he had set upon the counter. "Find a spot and start setting up while I am away," he instructed, rising from the table and pushing in his chair, "and I will help you finish when I am back. I have to go complete a deal." He shrugged a light coat onto his shoulders and padded down the hall, letting the door bang shut behind him as he exited. Regret weighed heavily on Jashri's soul.

The legs of the chair mumbled as they dragged along the floor and Jashri got to his feet. He hobbled to the bedroom, slipping into light blue travel robes made of soft wool. The color soothed his mind – Jashri had always been very fond of blue. He pulled an empty sack from a pile in the corner and began to fill it with rugged clothing, garments that would resist the harshness of the elements, exposed in the woods. Work attire remained in the drawers of the dresser. Walking boots of tough leather slipped onto his feet, scraping at their sores. Gathering the supplies into the sack, the khajiit headed to the kitchen cupboards, where he obtained several small iron pots and a humble set of dishes and utensils – all iron and wood, no nice tans or fancy pewters. The woods beckoned.

His items packed, Jashri stepped outside and breathed in the fresh, open air. This was certain to clear his mind, help him think of something beyond fear and prison. Surely there must be another solution. The leather soles of his boots battered the beaten dirt path that led from the back door of the house. It eventually led to the lake, a quiet spot where Jashri often fished on lazy holiday afternoons. He veered off the path into the soft, whispering grasses. The fishing spot would be one of the easiest places for a guard to find him.

The grasses that swished beneath his footsteps gave way to bushy undergrowth, tangled brambles stretching along a ground dappled with the specks of sunlight that filtered through the tree cover. Rich scents rose from the places crushed by his boots to Jashri's sensitive nose, smells of damp earth and molding leaves, the spicy tang of broken plants. Birds rustled and whistled, concealed safely within the shifting green ceiling. He wondered how easy it would be to hide in a tree, safe from grounded eyes and woodland creatures, but realized that it would be difficult to cook in a tree and sleep on the narrow branches. Perhaps not.

As he moved deeper into the forest, less light filtered through the canopy and creepers and ivies wound themselves around great mossy trunks, seeking sunshine. Dampness bred mushrooms, little red and white clumps of them gripping the forest's fallen. What bushes remained grew large, pushing themselves towards life-giving light. In these damp and dreary regions of the forest, Jashri discovered his ideal hiding place.

Trees ringed around a tiny clearing, barely big enough to house a tent and cookfire. An ancient stump squatted toward the center, positioned just slightly beyond where it would get in the way of pitching a tent. Enough thick underbrush grew around the clearing that he would be concealed from most directions. Pushing aside vines, the khajiit set his bags down beside the sturdy old stump and rested. The nearest water was a greater distance away than he preferred, but the house was nearby enough to set him at ease. He journeyed back there to gather tent-making materials and furs to sleep on. There was no way he would let himself be caught without shelter if it rained.


	4. 3

Ri'kel's mind was clouded with unwanted thoughts. It bothered him. The distractions caused his ears to twitch, his eyes to narrow sharply. His mood boiled black. Shipments _had_ to be arranged, no time for silly thoughts or worries. Ears lay nearly flat against his skull as he paced the path out of the Imperial City, scowling at himself. He just had to stop worrying. Distance was gobbled up with his every purposeful step, and it did not take long before he found himself at his home, brother sitting in wait beside the door. Ri'kel saw his twin shrink back, eyes widen, ears go limp, smelled his apprehension, and tried to soften his formidable expression. "Sorry. Are you finished?"

"With the camp? Yes, this way." The blue-robed figure slipped into the forest, not waiting for his well-dressed felt-shod sibling to prepare for the journey. Grumbling, he kicked off the flimsy footwear and padded barefoot after the fugitive, slinking quietly in pursuit of his retreating tail. Unlike his brother, Ri'kel did not make a habit of physical activities like running or fishing. The most exercise he got was the daily walk to and from his shop. His legs were beginning to grow unpleasantly warm when Jashri stopped, pushing aside a curtain of drooping vines to reveal a camp with a small tent, a little firepit, and a stump. It appeared comfortable enough. The ground was damp, though, and cold. Ri'kel shifted with discomfort as the chill of the earth seeped into the soft pads of his naked paws.

"I will remember the route," he muttered, eager to return to the warm wooden floors of his home, to write out the details of his newly completed deal. "I will bring some food to you every day after work." He turned away, quickly hastening back to dry ground, nose wrinkled in disgust at the feeling of squishy mud caked to the soles of his feet. Sticky and gooey, it would not clean off with even the most vigorous wiping across the grass. Ri'kel scraped at it with a stick plucked from the ground. Bits of dirt clung to the little hairs on his paws, drying into grainy clumps. The water in the basin would desperately need changing when he was finished with it. Picking up his unceremoniously tossed shoes from their landing place beside the door, Ri'kel let himself into the house, taking care not to let dried mud crumble onto the floor. The simple task of washing soothed his agitated mind, allowing thoughts to be set in order. One thought rose from the tangled network of concerns: eventually, Jashri would have to turn himself in. That fact was inevitable. Justice must be served, one way or another, and they simply could not pay the bounty, so he had to take the alternative. He sighed, patting the water from his fur. Jashri would not come to terms with this without help. Ri'kel must speak with him, make him see reason. It was only natural for Jashri to fear prison, but Ri'kel could negotiate with the guards to ensure that the punishment fit the crime – an accident, that was all. A terrible accident that Jashri should pay a sentence for. Just long enough to satisfy the victims and short enough not to hurt the khajiit. Above all, Ri'kel was certain that it was the only solution. He was ready to convince his brother of that.

Setting aside the cloth he had used to dry his paws, he took a few purposeful strides toward his office and desk. He glanced outside in an attempt to mark the hour, lit the wood in the fireplace with the flick of a match, and settled gently into his chair. The top few fasteners of his shirt were allowed to fall open in the warmth of the house, sleeves rolled up to avoid ink stains. All of his fingers were already smudged with black. Smoothing the sheet of parchment with a gentle touch, he readied his quill and set down the terms of his trading agreement with the kind orc and the deals he had made in the city. The abacus clicked. When he next looked up, the sky beyond the window was black as his ink and the hourglass had sat unturned for hours. Resisting the urge to run inky fingers over weary eyes, he yawned, catlike pink tongue curling between his jaws. He smothered the fire and stumbled to the bedroom, unfastening his clothes and tossing them into a heap as he flopped tiredly into bed. He peered across the room to say goodnight and his eyes met an empty bed. He sighed. Rolled over and faced the comfort of the wall. The furs were nothing against the chill he felt.

Days began to blur together into a fuzzy smear of actions and exhaustion. Running the shop alone was tiring, and regulars noticed the toll it took on the studious khajiit. They asked him unwanted questions; what was wrong, how was he holding up? Always he responded the same way – he was fine, just a little overworked, and soon he would get used to his new role. Optimistic. Where did these people think Jashri went? Surely they knew he had gotten into trouble and fled. Did they suspect Ri'kel of harboring a fugitive? Could they suspect that every day he brought food to a criminal, spoke to him, but lacked the strength to turn him in? They all thought he was a good person, lawful.

Ri'kel was not fine.

Conversation with Jashri proved just as repetitive and even more draining than the work. They spoke of the food – it was dry, bland, because boring food can easily be transported in a bag. Each asked after the health and well-being of the other. Ri'kel suspected that Jashri knew what troubled him, even though Ri'kel always blamed his exhaustion on the job. He was frustrated, even angry, at his brother. Jashri simply postponed turning himself in indefinitely. Forever. Ri'kel was entirely certain that prison would not be as bad as his brother feared. It was easy for him to be certain. Jashri had an irrational amount of fear. Ri'kel's anger was also directed toward himself, for weakness and hypocrisy. All could be solved if he spoke to the guards. But he could not. He could not do something like that to his brother – to himself. He owed a lot to Jashri. Never could he betray his brother's trust. So, nightly, he tried to convince his twin to do the right thing. Not once did he have the slightest hope of success.

"Come now, Jashri. Be reasonable." Ri'kel crouched on the flat stump in the little clearing, speaking softly, soothingly. He put a lot of effort into remaining friendly and calming. "It would not even be for very long. Probably a few months, but it is longer for every day you stay out here in the forest and the weather. I would visit you every day, just like I do now, except you could help with business, too, and I would not have to sneak off to see you. You would not have to fear being caught. I could even arrange, with the guards, for you to have a room to yourself, so you will not have to worry about criminals. It would be much better than staying here in the mud."

Jashri huddled in his tent, curled around himself. His eyes stared, large and round and vacant, at one of the trees that ringed the camp. "Not yet," his muffled voice pleaded from behind his blue-clothed knees. "I'm not ready."

"It would be safer, Jashri, trust me."

His head turned slowly from side to side, eyes still fixed blankly into the distance. Ri'kel's eyes focused on Jashri, willing the near-identical khajiit to please, listen to him, by the nine! Ri'kel's will did not stop his brother's head from wagging back and forth. He stifled a heavy sigh, glancing upward at the thick canopy of trees and the black gaps between their cover. The hour was late and he was tired, patience running thin. He rose to his feet. Jashri blinked at the sound, his gaze flicking up to meet his brother's. Ri'kel felt a spark of anger, perhaps undeserved, course though him. "You can not stay here forever, brother," he hissed, Jashri's steadfast lack of cooperation provoking him into losing his thin veil of gentleness. His oft-repeated warning was spoken as a threat. "If you sit here for too long, the guards _will_ find you. They will not be pleased that you hid from them, and there will be nothing I can do to stop them. You will rot in a tiny cell and you will wish that you listened to reason!" He surged through the curtain of creepers that concealed the clearing, storming purposefully home through the dark forest. Night's gentle breezes calmed his temper; by the time he reached his home, he sorely regretted snapping at Jashri. He was unwise to hold conversations so late at night, worn as he was after the unpleasant workday. Quickly he resolved to apologize the following night. Even though he had every reason to be frustrated with Jashri, he did not deserve to be treated unkindly. After all, Jashri was the one in trouble, the one whose fate hung in the balance. He too suffered a great deal of stress.

Ri'kel's mind bubbled with blurry thoughts, thick and fuzzy and tired. Despite the comfort of the bed, he could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling, wishing everything could just go back to the way it used to be. The night was as black as his thoughts.

The day began as was now the norm, filled with "yes, fine" and "just overworked." His mind buzzed distractedly, seeking the best way to apologize to Jashri. He was out-of-practice in dealing with such social situations, graceless and stumbling, so in his head he carefully rehearsed and revised what he was going to say. The work absorbed him.

"Sir?" A customer peered at him impatiently.

"My apologies. There is a lot on my mind." He blinked rapidly, refocusing his eyes. He wondered how long he had been staring. Quickly, he processed the customer's payment, scribbling it down on the logs with a quick but unsteady hand. Exhaustion drained his coordination, leaving his handwriting scrawling and spidery. He missed his usual bold script, the flowing words, the beautiful penmanship. He hoped sadly that he would not have to write much until the whole unpleasant situation was straightened out.

The bells chimed, a busty woman pattering into the shop. She headed quickly for the silverware. Ri'kel drifted slowly back into thought, only to be roused by a sharp thump on the desk and the rattle of metal. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly picked up his quill.

"I was wondering if you were still alive." The voice was loud and friendly, used to calling out tables and orders. "Doesn't look like you are. Having a tough time, huh?"

"Overworked," mumbled Ri'kel, counting the silverware on the rack set before him.

"Missed you boys last Fredas. You're quiet sorts, but the place just isn't the same without one of your furry hides in the corner table. You've been busy, I guess, even before the little mishap. Hadn't seen you for a couple of weeks."

"Yes, it is a busy trade season." He scribbled down the last of the figures, collected the gold and slipped it into a lockbox. The barmaid gathered the box of silverware and chuckled. "Some fool dropped and entire boxful into one of the cooking fires. He says he tripped. I took the opportunity to check up on you. Will I see you this week?"

"Perhaps." The bells gave a little jingle as the talkative woman pushed the door shut. Ri'kel sighed heavily. "Probably not," he muttered to himself, leaning his head on a hand. Even if Jashri suddenly used logic and turned himself in, Ri'kel could not see how he would have time for relaxation. He toyed with the little braid that hung down over his right temple, its end tied with a red string. Later, when all was right, would Jashri go back to that tavern? Perhaps Ri'kel would visit alone. Realizing his distraction, he slowly drifted back to composing his apology. He hoped it would be accepted.

The final grains of sand dropped to the pile at the bottom of the glass, and Ri'kel slowly put his papers in order, sifting out unimportant or unused scraps. He filed it all away, procured a burlap sack from beneath the counter, and filled it with potatoes, vegetables, and dried meats from the storeroom. After a moment of consideration, he also included a beer. An extension of his apology. Bottles broke too easily for Ri'kel to feel comfortable transporting them often. The lock of the shop popping shut, he strode toward the main gate, toward the bridge, toward the path to the forest. In his head he went over the many things he wanted to say, the perfect way to make amends for his sharpness the previous night. Cobbled road and dusty trail were consumed by his quick footsteps as he rehearsed, oblivious to the forest around him. Habit navigated him to his home, memory guiding him along the spiderwebbing game trails into the darker parts of the wood. The earthy, rotting scent of the rich inner-forest ground snapped Ri'kel into focus, steeling his nerves for the conversation. He hesitated for a moment beside the concealing curtain of vines, taking one last second to prepare himself, and then something distracted him. A lack of sound, of liveliness. No fire popped gently within the clearing. Ri'kel's apology drained from his immediate attention, forced out by concern. "Jashri? Are you all right?"

No response. Not even a breeze wafted through to rustle the leaves and break the silence. Ill? Dead? Ri'kel's tail twitched anxiously, involuntarily. Worry began to gnaw at the walls of his stomach. He brushed the curtain aside. He was unprepared for what he saw inside.

Dirt had been kicked over the ashes of a firepit long cold. The tent was hastily destroyed, its sticks and fabric strewn, ruined, around the clearing. The furs were gone. All the ground cover was disturbed, churned by a frenzied step. The tree directly opposite the entrance was slashed, words carved into the bark by frantic claws.

 _I CANT  
I MUST  
IM SORRY_

The bag of food smashed to the ground with a crunch of breaking glass. Ri'kel's ears laid back, his teeth clenched. "Damn it!" He kicked at the cold ashes, paced, his tail lashing, yellow-green eyes narrowed. A hiss escaped his pointed grimace. Booted feet tore another scar in the dirt as Ri'kel strode out his agitation, pounded his anger into the ground until he lacked the energy to do more than twitch his tail. The drain of emotion left him cold and empty. Sinking down onto the large stump, the khajiit buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his tired eyes. He drew a long breath, exhaling the cool night air into a sigh. A dreadful sigh, more painful than when he had first learned of Jashri's incident. Terrible nameless feelings tore at Ri'kel's heart, bit at his mind. His thoughts breathed out in a whisper.

"Jashri ran away. Gods help us."

Knowing it was his fault made the pain all the worse.

* * *

The streets were deserted, painted gray by the fine rain that misted the Imperial City. Water pooled in slick, shiny puddles on the cobbles, darkly reflecting the clouded sky above. The light precipitation gently rippled their smooth surfaces. Argonians loitered in the streets, the scaly people unfazed by the moisture. Several dockworkers slumped beside a store, one puffing at a pipe, the acrid smell of smoke accented by the moisture in the air. Hatchlings played quietly among the puddles under the watchful eyes of the adults. Reptilian gazes flicked up at Ri'kel as he passed by the groups lingering on the curbs, eating or muttering to one another. He spared them no glance. The khajiit moved with a purpose, his face set in grim determination; a purpose was the only thing that could draw him out on such a dreary day. Like many cats, he had little fondness for water. His ears tucked back against his head within a well-worn hood, fur covered entirely by the dull red cloak. His eyes narrowed at the rain.

The door to the Office of Imperial Commerce swung open, admitting the light-pelted khajiit and the foul stench of wet fur. Behind the desk, a secretary wrinkled her nose, scowling, and plucked a quill from a jar. The cat removed his hooded cloak and hung it on a hook near the door, smoothing the merchant's clothing he wore underneath. "Yes, mister. . . ?"

"Ri'kel," he offered, seating himself in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She glared disapprovingly at the smell of his fur. He hardly noticed. "I must ask my rent to be waived for a while. There is a pressing family matter that must be attended to." His eyes were sharp and intent. Hers narrowed in impatience and disinterest.

"Which shop?"

"Tokens of Tamriel." She scrawled out his information on a scrap of paper, one hand brushing a wisp of mousy brown hair away from her face. To Ri'kel's mild irritation, she spelled his name wrong.

"And where are you going?"

"Ah. . . elsewhere."

"Elsweyr," she muttered under her breath, scribbling. "Of course. Now," she glanced up at the young businessman fidgeting across the desk, "How long will you be gone?"

Ri'kel sighed softly. He had no idea, but knew his journey would be long. "Several months, at least."

The secretary's eyebrows pinched down, nearly meeting above her nose, as she scowled. "We can't stop charging you for that long," she snapped, her tone suggesting that it was ridiculous to even ask.

Ri'kel's tail swished behind the chair. "Can we work something out? Reduced rates?" With a loudly audible sigh, she shuffled the papers on the desk, opening a tremendous book and peering closely at it for a few moments. Ri'kel wished he could tell what she was reading. He could not read well upside-down. "Well, if you don't care about guard service when you're away, we can charge half price." Her stony eyes flicked up, closed to any further haggling. "No less."

He ran calculations in his head, mouth twisting grimly. "Very well."

"If you're gone longer than one year, we have to start charging full price again. It's in the rules." Her hand thumped against the large book. "If you can't pay the rent, we sell the shop to someone who can."

Frowning thoughtfully, he realized this was the best deal he would get. "Yes, fine."

"As soon as you return, rent goes back to full."

"Of course."

"If you aren't gone by the end of this month, guard service stays and the discount won't go into effect. It's a travel discount only."

"Can I hire someone else to run the shop while I am away?"

She snorted derisively. "I don't care, but you don't get guard service. As long as you're not there, you're traveling. Travel discount. Now travel yourself out of my office before I change my mind." With a final flourish against the page, the quill was tossed unceremoniously onto the desk.

"Thank you." Rising from the chair and donning his cloak, Ri'kel walked back out into the rain. As the door thudded shut behind him, he heard the secretary grumble and the papers on her desk rustle as they were filed away.

Wind blew cold rain into Ri'kel's face. He hissed softly, shivering. Never could anything be easy or pleasant. The rain soaked into his fur. There was little he could do about it, the sleeves of the cloak were just as wet. Luckily, the treated surface allowed water to roll off instead of soaking through to the rest of his body as well. Mouth drawing into a tight, thin line, he sighed. He could only think of one way to keep the shop running; beyond that, here was little he could do. His path altered, steps leading him to the Arcane University across the city. Shivering at the unpleasant weather, he drew his cloak more tightly around himself, hoping to keep off the worsening rain during what was sure to be a long and unpleasant walk. The sky rumbled. Already flat ears further plastered themselves to his head in distaste, steps sped, feet slapping noisily against the wet cobbles as he pattered through the Arboretum, over the short arched bridge, through the thick wooden gate, into the main tower's door.

Water trickled from the edges of the slick cloak, pooling into trembling little puddles on the waxed and shining floor. Ri'kel glanced apologetically around the small cylindrical room, but the few magi there seemed too engrossed in their studies to pay him any mind. He remained still, rain draining onto the floor – surely they could clean it with magic, but he did not want to risk spreading the mess and ruining the old, slightly scuffed wood. A small lake gathered around him. He gently cleared his throat to alert one of the studious magi.

An old man glanced up from the book he pored over. His voice was wise and kindly. "Something you need help with, boy?"

"I am looking to speak with someone, but I am certain she is busy. Is there a way for me to relay a message to her?"

"Of course." Thumping his book shut, the man rose from the narrow wooden bench he had perched on. His joints creaked. A few steps brought him to a table, its surface covered by large gemstones of brilliant purple, drawers underneath containing quills, ink, and paper. He pushed aside several of the sparkling crystals, set down the paper and writing utensils, and beckoned Ri'kel over. The dripping khajiit hesitated, glancing at the small sea his cloak had deposited onto the floor. The old man chuckled, muttered something. The puddle dried before Ri'kel's eyes. He padded to the table. "When you're finished, you can just give it to me and I'll pass it on to whoever you're writing to. I won't read it, don't worry, just put the name somewhere I can see it."

Ri'kel took up the quill, no longer attempting to control the trembling handwriting scrawling across the page. He folded the note, scratching a name onto the front, and handed it to the man. "Thank you." The white square was enveloped in the wizened hand, tucked into the pocket of the robe. He acknowledged Ri'kel with a slight inclination of his head, eyes not leaving the book. Feeling a dismissal in the gesture, Ri'kel quietly exited, braving the downpour once more. He scurried through the sodden gray streets to his shop. Though the room was dark and unheated, it was much warmer and drier than outside. Dripping cloak slipped from his shoulders, hooked upon the wall. A few matches lit several lights. Their warm honey tones and the relative comfort of the familiar room relaxed Ri'kel, the tight knots in his tense shoulders beginning to unwind. He toyed idly with a scale on his desk, exhausted mind vacant of thought. Waiting was soothing. Rain hissed outside. Amazing that something so unpleasant could sound so nice.

A clicking sound rattled through the air. Ri'kel's eyes popped open, startled – when did they close? Once more the strange noise rent the silence, and his ears pricked. The door! Had he locked it behind himself? He surged from his seat, the chair clattering backwards to the floor just as the door opened, bells jangling merrily. Blood rushed to his head, tiny lights popping before his eyes as he steadied himself against the desk, scattering orderly stacks of papers. A peal of laughter caused his face to grow warm, and he was suddenly very appreciative of his fur. "Careful now, cat, you'll hurt yourself." He blinked rapidly, waiting for the rush to subside, then gingerly turned and righted his chair, sinking back down onto its cushion. He rested his elbows on the disorganized table, rested his face in his hands, eyes squeezing shut. A gentle hand touched his shoulder, his muscles tense once more. "Not doing so well, huh?" The hand lifted, another chair scraped against the floor and stopped on the other side of his desk. "So what was the note for, what do you need from me?"

Ri'kel was silent, mind still fuzzy from his unusual awakening. He let a breath of air puff from his nostrils. "I need your help," he muttered. His yellow-green eyes met dark ones across the table. The black eyes of the redguard girl gazed calmly back, awaiting more information. He slowly straightened, removing his arms from the desk. A few deep breaths helped the khajiit collect himself. "Sorry. I am a bit – well, you know." He cleared his throat. She nodded encouragingly. "Look, you are one of the few people in the Imperial City I know well enough to trust. You are in need of septims, correct?"

"Are you offering me a job?"

"Ah, of a sort, yes, but –"

"I'll take it."

"You do not even know what you will have to do yet. . ."

"I get it, it's important. I need the money and I'm a good, hard worker, I'll do it."

"Moshil, sh! Let me explain first." He waited for an interruption from the girl. None came. He nodded approval. "I need to find Jashri. I will be leaving and I need you to run the shop for a while; several months, at least. If you do well, you may earn a spot as our first employee."

"Two questions."

"Go ahead."

"First, why do you need anyone to run the shop at all? Second, what do I need to do to run a shop?"

Ri'kel ran his hands over his face, sighing. He spoke reluctantly, his tone flat. "Imperial Commerce rules will not exempt me from rent while I am away, and I do not have the money to pay the rent without the profit from the shop." The redguard drew breath as if to interrupt once more, and Ri'kel held out a hand, palm flat, a gentle gesture for patience. "I know you have your studies. I have a plan that should keep your job to a minimum and help gain some connections for the shop. Sh, let me finish. The rent is halved, so it should be possible to make it with just the locals' purchases –"

"That doesn't sound very certain."

"No, it is not. I really do not know if this plan will work, either, but I believe you will be able to pull it off well enough."

"If I can't, what happens to the shop?"

Ri'kel's gaze fell the the disorderly papers on the desk, but he did not really see them. His tail was limp behind him, and he fell silent. The sound of the rain outside grew deafening, the khajiit's soft words barely floating over the din. "It fails." His shoulders tightened. "My brother is more important than my business." As the moments passed, the redguard quietly bent and gathered scattered papers from the floor. A soft intake of breath ended his silence, and Ri'kel continued a little more strongly. "You understand why this is so important."

It was not a question, but the girl nodded anyway. "The plan?"

"Right." Ri'kel sifted a strip of parchment from his mess and smoothed it out before him, pen poised over the blank page. "Here is what you will need to do. . ."


	5. 4

Hooves rumbled by on the hard-packed dirt road, flicking up small clumps of mud. The roll of hoofbeats drummed off into the distance. Jashri peered from a cluster of bushes beside the trail. His eyes flicked left, right. No one. Carefully, he slunk from the shade of the plants, all senses alert and wary. The foliage on the other side of the road swayed and rustled as he darted behind the concealing branches. His ears perked, swiveling, ascertaining that no one had seen him. Nothing but birdsong. Jashri willed his racing heart to slow, relaxing in the shadows. The grumbling of his stomach startled him, ears flicking and eyes widening. He tried to chuckle at his silliness, managing a weak rasp, but his pulse leapt and his breathing quickened. Not even three days had passed, he reasoned with himself, he simply wasn't used to the wilderness yet. He knew that wasn't truly the problem – he was terrified of being caught. He had to get to another province as soon as possible. He calmed very slowly. A gentle breeze tousled the treetops, causing soft cloudy shadows to dance around him. He wondered idly if they served as camouflage, spinning his speckled pelt into a dance of light and shade. The sound of the breeze soothed, its scent foretelling rain. A frown pulled back the corners of Jashri's lips. He would need to find shelter before the clouds let loose their fury. How could he do that without leaving Cyrodiil? There was no way. Shaken nerves recovered, he began to walk through the trees, caring only that he walked away from the Imperial City. He considered running – no, he had had enough of running. Nearly two full days of running. If his brother wanted to send guards after him, Jashri had at least a day's head start and khajiiti stealth. They were unlikely to find him before he left the province. After that, their search wouldn't matter. He'd get off scot-free.

Booted feet met the smoothness of a trail, and he turned to follow it. As long as he avoided the main roads, he would meet no guards. Trails were easier to walk than dense forest. If anyone came up the path, all Jashri had to do was spring to the side. He would notice them long before they noticed him. Such thoughts reassured him. He needed the confidence. The less-traveled paths proved dreary, the forests old, gnarled, filled with unknowns. His thoughts kept him going. Whatever lay ahead could be no worse than what lay behind. Behind lay the certainty of prison, of punishment, of anger and guilt. And his brother. Jashri didn't want to think about it.

So concentrated was he on positive thoughts that he didn't notice another person coming up the trail until he could almost see them. A quick leap deposited him into the bushes, huddled closely to the ground. He watched the trail, peering through a thin strip of space beneath the shrubs, above the stubbly grass.

A single pair of leather-shod feet padded along the trail in the direction of the Imperial City. Small, agile feet. They continued along without pause, swiftly passing the khajiit's hiding place. Their soft sounds faded into nothingness. Jashri let out his held breath in relief, some of the tension leaving his body.

"Hello."

Jashri flinched violently at the sound of the gentle voice behind him, kicking dirt and leaves everywhere and snapping sticks from the bushes. He scrambled to his feet, whirling to face the sound and backing against a tree. His chest heaved as he tried to breathe past the panic constricting his throat. His eyes darted around, seeking the source of the sound.

Small feet swung back and forth at eye level, shod in soft leather boots. They were attached to the legs of a smirking bosmer. The elf was perched soundlessly on a tree branch, his dark eyes gleaming facetiously as they watched the trembling khajiit. Jashri shook his head back and forth in tiny increments, never breaking eye contact with the bosmer. "That was cruel," he managed to stutter, voice wavering.

"I'm sorry," drawled the bosmer, his smooth voice seasoned with amusement. "I just couldn't pass up the opportunity!" He did not sound sorry at all, only pleased with himself. Jashri's eyes narrowed as his shattered nerves pieced themselves back together. "Look, really, khajiit. I am sorry." The bosmer slid from the tree, landing lightly on his feet and extending a hand to shake. He looked more sincere now. Jashri reluctantly shook hands with the elf. "Now, what's the matter, my friend?"

"Friend?" spat Jashri, incredulity and distrust mingling in his voice. The bark of the tree dug into his back as he flattened himself closer against it.

"Why, yes, friend!" The bosmer looked almost surprised. "You've accepted my apology, you're speaking to me, I see no reason to consider you an enemy."

"I don't even know who you are."

"Right, sorry. My name is Braedal! And you?"

"Um, Jashri."

"Pleasure to meet you," Braedal piped cheerfully, settling down on the ground and folding his legs into a little knot. He patted the soil beside him, inviting Jashri to take a seat as well. "Mind telling me why you decided you had to jump into a bush when you saw me coming?"

Jashri let himself slip to the ground, remaining backed against the tree. He was uneasy and uncertain if he should be trusting the enthusiastic little elf. He carefully kept his answers to a minimum. "I'm in a little trouble with the law. I don't want to get caught." The elf's large black eyes glittered with interest.

"Well, we all get on the wrong side of the law sometimes, right? Me, I'm a rebel. Left Valenwood because I didn't like the Thalmor. And to travel. I like travel." He toyed with a tiny green shoot that peeked from the soil. "So where are you heading?"

"Away."

"Away to where? All that's in that direction is Thalmor territory, you know. Elsweyr, Valenwood, Summerset. . . got family in Elsweyr?"

"Of a sort. I'm just trying to leave Cyrodiil. Maybe I'll go to Elsweyr. Or maybe Morrowind, to see if I can find some family there, if they aren't all dead."

Braedal gave a little snort of amusement. "That's morbid. Well, since you don't know where you're going, and I'm just traveling, maybe we could travel together. Take care of each other, you know? Watch each other's backs. Tamriel's not a very safe place these days."

Jashri's tail flicked uncertainly. The bosmer was genial enough, outgoing and seemingly friendly, but it hadn't been the least bit amusing to be ambushed by him, and he'd rather not wind up with a knife between his ribs if he misjudged the elf's character. Still, he did have a point. Jashri knew he wasn't attuned to the woods – at least not yet, he hadn't explored the wilderness in months, and was out of practice – and plenty of dangerous creatures lurked in Cyrodiil's wilds. This elf, no matter how suspicious, was clearly used to thriving in the wilderness. Had he wanted to kill Jashri, he would already be dead. Besides, even unpleasant company would keep him busy. He reluctantly accepted.

"Don't look so worried, khajiit! We're safer together, and I wouldn't let anything bad happen to a friend."

"Yeah, okay." Despite the undercurrent of sarcasm in Jashri's voice, Braedal crawled over and sat beside him. Jashri tensed, the bark stabbing at his back. Braedal procured a tattered map from a pocket in his pants – his pants had many pockets – and unfolded it, draping one end onto Jashri's lap. The elf began to mutter to himself. "Elsweyr. . . already been there. Didn't see much, Thalmor. Hmm. . . Morrowind?" The map slid from Jashri's legs as the bosmer drew the carefully inked province closer to himself. "Bah. Nasty place. Don't know why you'd want to go there." Black eyes met Jashri's yellow for a split second before returning to the page.

"You're talking to me?"

"Yes, of course." The elf's dark eyes didn't leave the map again. He scrutinized it for a few moments, mumbling incoherently. The few words Jashri could catch were not Cyrodiilic. Braedal's eyes suddenly flicked up to meet his. "What do you think about Argonia? Seems a pleasant place to visit."

"Too wet. And I'm khajiit."

"Mm, right, argonians don't like khajiit. Pity, the weather would be a lot like Valenwood's." The top of the map began to fold down over itself, Braedal flicked it back up. "You ever been up north?"

"Only to Bruma."

"I meant provinces. We could head that way, visit Skyrim, High Rock. . ."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Well, at least one of us has an objection to every province. Where do you propose we go? Akavir? I'll object to that one right now, too." The two lapsed into silence, Jashri deep in thought. Nords got him into this mess in the first place, he couldn't go north. Braedal wouldn't go near Thalmor territories. He was certainly interested to see Morrowind, though he would have to backtrack past the Imperial City. Black Marsh would perhaps not be too terrible, but the weather would be miserable and Jashri was sure the locals would be none too kind to a khajiit. He wondered if he could convince the elf to see Morrowind. Where could be better? No Thalmor, no nords, a chance to find long-lost family. Jashri wanted to see the place of his birth. Though the dunmer may not appreciate a khajiit, Braedal's presence would ward off all but the worst of them. Who would look for Jashri there?

"Braedal, what's wrong with Morrowind? The Dominion doesn't own it."

"Oh, I'm sure it'd be quite pleasant if it weren't for the arrogant dunmer, the terrible weather, and the huge lava-spewing volcano."

"Have you been there?"

"No, but I've never heard anything good about it."

"Well, how can you know it's so bad if you haven't been there? People like to complain and they like to exaggerate, it's probably not as bad as you've heard. I thought you said you liked to travel? Aren't travelers supposed to like exploring? It'll be interesting, seeing the volcano."

Braedal fixed his eyes on the ragged corner of his map, running the frayed edge between his fingers. "Well. . . all right, I'll go along. I don't like it, though. Doesn't feel right." He stood in a single fluid motion, the map folding between dextrous hands and slipping back into concealment. As he made his way back upright, Jashri couldn't help but envy the bosmer's lithe easiness of movement. The khajiit was stiff and sore from weeks of sleeping on the ground in his little woodland camp and several days of fleeing it. His leaden legs protested his attempts to bend them, so clumsily he stood. Braedal watched closely, but made no remarks. His eyes were unreadable. Jashri preferred unreadable to mocking. When Jashri was finally steady on his feet, the elf immediately stepped off at a brisk pace. Several stiff and awkward moments passed before the khajiit caught up. He noticed with pleasure and slight amusement that the bosmer was very small in comparison to himself. Not counting ears, Jashri stood over a head taller, and though he was not particularly muscular his arms and chest were noticeably thicker. His tail gave an involuntary satisfied swish at the observation. Azurah's khajiit were certainly superior to Y'ffre's elves, if such gods were true. Jashri had never paid much attention to the preachers; such things were better aligned with Ri'kel's interests. Jashri was most comfortable with the tangible.

His temporarily subdued hunger slunk back with a whine, gnawing piteously at the walls of his stomach. His ears flattened. Braedal laughed. "We'll find something soon enough, don't worry."

Jashri gave a weak chuckle as another tormented sound emanated from his gut. "I think it's been three days since I last ate."

"Can you hunt?"

"I don't have anything to hunt with."

"Probably for the better, you'll scare away anything we come across." They veered off the trail into a dense patch of foliage. "Stay here. I'll find us something." A thin, wicked-looking throwing knife materialized in the bosmer's sure grip and he slunk into the forest, dissolving in its leafy embrace.

Jashri exhaled, gladly sinking to the ground and stretching his legs straight out in front of him. He vigorously rubbed his sore muscles, biting back exclamations when his fingers met tender places. Massaging his legs kept him very warm, though breezes sometimes slipped through the dense foliage to pierce his travel robe and send shivers up his spine. Occasionally his stomach flopped and whimpered. He wished he could quiet it, wondering dully when the bosmer would return. When he became conscious of this thought, he passed the time by chiding himself for his foolishness. Braedal had no reason to come back. If he caught something, he would be better off eating it himself than feeding a weak khajiit, fellow outlaw or no. Besides, the woods were dangerous; he could have been eaten by bears and Jashri would never even know. Despite these thoughts, Jashri did not leave. His legs hurt, and with instinct, not logic, as his guide,he deemed it better to stay and hope the bosmer's offer of friendship was true, if only because it would be terribly hard for the khajiit to hunt for himself. He was very tired, he realized, gazing vacantly at a red mushroom squatting at the base of a nearby tree. How nice it would be to have some food and a warm bed. He wondered idly if the bright fungus was edible.

There was a scuff of footsteps and a rustle of plants beside him as Braedal shouldered aside the bushes, an enormous rat slung over his shoulder. Jashri regarded the square-toothed, glassy-eyed rodent with distaste. He had chased his fair share of rats out of the basement of the shop, and never had they struck him as edible – though, granted, they never were quite as big as this one.

"Don't complain, city cat," the elf advised, catching Jashri's eye. "One meat is as good as another, and this was the first thing I could kill." His breathing was slightly quicker than usual, he gave little pants in the pauses of his speech. He must have made haste as soon as he captured his prey. Grudgingly grateful, Jashri watched dully as Braedal carved up the creature, slicing off slabs of pink flesh and setting aside fur and other inedibles. "Should I build a fire?"

The elf paused in his butcher work, shrugging. "If you can find enough dry wood, go ahead. Looks to me like the forest is wet through, though." He glanced at the sky, its once-soft steely gray clouds now heavy, dark, and ominous. "Also looks like it might rain, so don't count on having a fire for long."

By the time Braedal finished slicing up their meal, Jashri had managed to scrape together a tiny pile of minimally damp sticks. They smoked uncontrollably when lit. "Here." Braedal handed him a scraped piece of the rat hide, its smooth side stacked with quivering, glistening pink slabs of raw rodent. The elf had a similar, smaller stack on another furry makeshift plate, and what remained of the beast had either been deemed inedible and buried or wrapped up in the skin it originally came in to be brought along on the trip. Jashri impaled one of his pieces on the pointiest stick he could find and held it over the ineffective fire, hoping to reform the slimy blob into something that looked more edible. He had hunted plenty of times, but was always able to cook and eat his catch soon afterward. He glanced at the bosmer, wondering how he was faring. Braedal ate the little globs of meat raw, not even attempting to cook them over Jashri's fire. A disgusted sound involuntarily escaped his throat, and Braedal glanced up at him with a shrug. "Food's food, take what you can get." Averting his eyes, Jashri continued to turn his first little piece over the sputtering flame, succeeding only in warming the meat a little and causing a smoky black crust to form along the edges. His stomach pleaded for something to fill it. He shuddered as he bit the first piece, crunchy at first and then squishing, releasing a bitter black smoky flavor. He gagged, deciding to emulate the bosmer. The raw bits were fleshy but firm and had little taste; better than his cooking attempt, though with an unpleasant slimy texture that caused Jashri to squint and frown as he ate. Braedal was right, though. Food was food, and although unpalatable it ceased the complaints from his stomach. He flipped dirt onto the useless fire, bitterly wishing never to be without a good means of cooking again as he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth in an attempt to cleanse his mouth of the flavor.

Braedal leaned against a tree, gazing up at the foreboding sky. One hand idly toyed with his hunting knife, the other lying limp across his abdomen. As Jashri clumsily forced his legs into a standing position, it became clear that the elf had been waiting for him; he stood gracefully, almost soundlessly, tucking the knife into concealment and filling his pockets with carefully wrapped meat. "Ready?"

"I suppose."

"Well, off we go, then!" This time, Jashri was ready to keep pace with the agile bosmer and they made their way to the trail side by side.

Night fell, and with it, rain. The thicker parts of the forest remained fairly dry, water only trickling through the branches in steady, easily avoided streams. Where tree cover thinned, rain fell in torrents. Jashri's blue travel cloak, though quite warm and snug, was not waterproof, and it didn't take long before he found himself cold, wet, and unhappy, his fur clinging to his lean frame and making him feel shriveled up. Tucked under the barely effective hood, his ears clapped themselves flat against his head. He was very glad he had had the foresight to bag his furs in the patched-together remains of the slick waterproof fabric of the tent, hoping desperately that his makeshift creation kept the water out. Wet fur stank to Oblivion, both sleeping furs and his own bedraggled pelt. Braedal didn't seem to much mind the smell of wet khajiit, and Jashri occasionally caught himself enviously eying the bosmer's smooth skin. Drops of rain rolled right off. His eyes darting away, he pulled his sodden cloak more tightly around himself, resisting the urge to hiss in vain at the rain.

Hours of precipitation turned the dirt trail to mush, the travelers left it to find a drier patch of the wet forest to set up a camp. This did not require much. Jashri unrolled his – thankfully dry – furs to sleep on. Braedal procured a thin sheet from one of his myriad pockets, spreading it on the ground to keep dirt from sticking to him. Although they were bulkier and heavier, Jashri preferred the furs. They provided more padding between his body and the hard earth.

He lay on his soft bed, listening as Braedal's breathing slowed to a quiet whisper, lost in the patter of raindrops on the canopy above. His fur slowly dried, stiffening into little clumps. He would fix them in the morning. Although he could see easily in the darkness of the nighttime woods, days of ceaseless movement exhausted him so thoroughly that he hardly wanted to move. The thick black leaves of the canopy above him swayed gently, holding the attention of his tired eyes. Sounds of breath, of wind, the busy feet of rain on leaves, faded to soft nothingness; the scents of water, of earth, of fur, wet and dry, melded into sweet emptiness; the darkness of the leaves above, the night, the peeks of clouded sky, faded into blackness as conscious thought dulled to peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Day dawned in a blue scrap of patchwork sky, golden sunlight stitching together the edges of woolen gray clouds with heavenly thread. Light and shadow spattered the ground of the camp calico. As Braedal peered intently at his ragged scrap of map, Jashri struggled with furs and fur. Strangely enough, it was a fight to roll his bedding back into a shape that fit its makeshift container. His own bedraggled pelt had not only clumped with wetness, but tangled. He sorted the hairs carefully with his fingertips, wincing when smooth fur changed abruptly to painful knot. Never had he so strongly desired a comb. Minutes raced by as he struggled with his grooming; upon meeting the last tangle, his patience wearing thin, he let a claw flash out and sever some of the hairs. His ears flicked at a low sound, and he glanced up to see Braedal watching him curiously.

"You told me you had nothing to hunt with. Don't claws count?"

Jashri looked down at his hand, examining the small ridges of skin that concealed the wicked curved nails. "I try to avoid using them. I've lived in the city for a while, where it isn't very acceptable to walk around with claws out. Scares people." And he had very good reason to keep his claws unused after what he had done with them.

"I guess that's reasonable. . . in the city." A rustle of parchment told Jashri that Braedal's gaze was back on his map. "But out here, it's perfectly acceptable to use everything you've got."

"I'd really rather not." His hand curled around the talons and folded itself away into a pocket of his pants. With his other hand he hoisted the little waterproof sack. "So what does that map of yours tell you?"

"It's a little outdated, so some of these trails might be different, but depending on how quickly we can walk we'll probably make it to Lake Rumare before the end of the week."

"We're going that close to the city?"

"What did you think we were going to do, detour to Leyawiin? The city is right along our path to Morrowind, if you're still so intent on going there. If you're really that worried you can hide during the day and catch up to me at night or something. And, well. . ." Braedal trailed off, his expression going suspiciously blank.

"Well?"

"I was sort of hoping to see the Imperial City, you know? I've never been, and there's the tower, and the Arena, and the University, and the dragon. . ."

"I am not going back, it's too risky."

"Can't you hide somewhere, take a rest, maybe, just for one day? I'm not asking you to go into the city, just lay low for a while and then the next day we can keep going. I'm a traveler, Jashri, and even if I weren't I wouldn't pass up the Imperial City without stopping to visit. It's the heart of Tamriel, and the grandest city that ever existed."

"Fine, okay. One day. But you have to pretend you've never heard of me, and pick up something I can hunt or fish with. Don't ever mention me to anyone, not even anonymously, as a 'partner' or something. Pretend you're a pilgrim, or a lone refugee, or a solitary traveler."

Braedal grinned. His teeth were very white against his tanned bosmeri skin, the contrast making his smile all the more mischievous. "Don't worry, Jashri. I'm an excellent pretender. Everything will run smoothly. As far as the Imperial City's concerned, I've never seen a khajiit in my life." The map folded into a small square and disappeared into a pocket of Braedal's sturdy brown pants. He got to his feet, looking up at the khajiit. "Let's get moving, then."

They trudged through the undergrowth, blundering back to the thin, muddy trail. Eventually, all paths in Cyrodiil led to the Imperial City.

* * *

The city looked much as it had when he had left. Large, looming, it perched across the water in stony silence. It currently held Braedal in its clutches, concealed behind the thick white walls. Jashri hoped he was enjoying himself, or, at the very least, not getting them into trouble. He was still wary of trusting him.

Jashri's nerves were on edge, frayed by anxiety and fear. Every sound made him flinch, the gentle step of innocent passers-by magnified into the tramp of a guard's iron boot. He lay on his belly in a small thicket on the banks across from the city, far enough away to stay hidden but too close for comfort. His yellow-green eyes remained fixed intently on the city, its massive tower scraping the heavens. Seconds stretched into tense, painful eternities. Though he watched the city carefully, it was too far and the glare of light off the water too bright for Jashri to actually see anyone; he could hardly even make out the cluster of buildings near the main gate. Still, he watched, hoping that his partner would run out of things to admire and and return to continue the journey. All the while he hardly even dared to breathe. His surroundings, the familiar plants and smells that once calmed him and reminded him of home, were now hostile. They remembered the touches of bloodstained fingers, the crushing trample of fleeing feet. The perfumes of the flowers oozed accusations at him. Under the plants' glares, his tail hugged his legs and his eyes opened wide. Soft sounds and breezes set his fur to bristling. Braedal had better hurry up. Jashri was certain that, if he stayed too long, his fears would drive him mad.

The sun sank in the sky, dyeing the heavens red and gold as it impaled itself upon the distant mountains. As darkness descended, the khajiit relaxed slightly. He liked darkness. Night was his friendly shroud, concealing him from the prying eyes of guards. He was gaining an appreciation for the late hours. No wonder criminals – other criminals – worshipped gods of night and stealth and secrecy. They were useful allies.

The familiar padding of light leather shoes sounded on the path behind Jashri's hiding place, and he cocked his head slightly to peer at the source of the sound. Braedal carried a small burlap sack – did he run out of space in his pockets? – and didn't even glance in Jashri's direction. He was the perfect model of an unconcerned traveler. He passed by. Jashri bit his lip, held his breath, counted the seconds. The path remained empty. He let out his breath in silent relief, letting his gaze drift about in search of the bosmer.

"Jashri." He flinched, teeth clamping down hard on his lower lip as his ears flipped back at the whispered word beside him. His eyes narrowed as he tasted blood. He turned to face the bosmer, who sat beside a bush a few paces a way. "You didn't need to startle me like that," he hissed crossly, his irritation leaking into his voice. The elf's black eyes glittered. "Just keeping you on your toes. Got you something." He untied the string on the burlap sack and fished out a little dagger, its blade concealed within a clearly inexpensive hide sheath. He tossed it into the long grass where Jashri lay. The khajiit sat up, brushing dirt and dried grass from his stained blue clothing, irritation slowly giving way to curiosity. Gathering up the knife from where it lay, he turned it over in his hands before sliding the blade from its holder. Compared to the modest appearance of the sheath and basic wrapped handle, the blade was surprisingly good quality, forged of a sturdy, even-colored steel, adequate for stabbing or cutting as the situation required. He was pleased and surprised. Braedal must have expected such a reaction; when Jashri glanced over at the elf, the corner of his wide mouth lifted. "I had them cut back on the handle and sheath so we could afford the good blade. The blade is what matters in a knife, after all."

Jashri admired the moonlight glinting from the silvery edges of his dagger for a moment before slipping it back into the hide, considering how to carry it without burdening his hands. "Thank you."

"Not a problem. I got a few treats for myself, too." He began to rummage through the bag once more.

"Sounds like you enjoyed yourself."

"You bet I did. Saw the university, watched a couple rounds at the Arena – strange sport, that is – browsed the markets, saw Auri-El. That was interesting, he's a lot bigger than I expected him to be. Lots of pilgrims there. I wanted to go into the White-Gold Tower, too, but they wouldn't let me near it, I guess they were doing something political in there." He paused for a moment, extracting a cloth-wrapped fist-sized object from his bag and regarding it with satisfaction. "My favorite part, though, was the Arboretum. You can only look at stone walls for so long before you start to miss the plants. They have quite a garden." He slowly began to unwrap the white linen from his prize, gently uncovering the golden-brown treasure within. "Look at this, Jashri, isn't it magnificent? Well. . . maybe you've never had to compare. I tell you, city cat, there really is nothing like a Cyrodiilic sweetroll." Jashri gave a faint snort of amusement. Braedal waved dismissively, setting the burlap sack on the ground and leaning back against a tree with an expression that suggested he was living in the lap of luxury. "You just don't understand how good it really is," he piped in a lofty, singsong voice before falling silent to enjoy his treat. The conversation ceased; Jashri felt anxiety creep once more up his spine, ruffling his fur. His fingers ran along the contours of his dagger, seeking comfort. "Do you have anything else in that bag?"

Braedal held up a finger, signaling for Jashri to wait as he swallowed a bite of sweetroll. "Yes. I picked up a few matches and a little bit of food. Didn't bother taking the time to stuff it all away in my pockets."

"Would you do it now? I really don't like staying here for so long, we need to keep moving." He tried to hold his uneasy tail still as it began to twitch. Braedal glanced at the khajiit, carefully rewrapped the remainder of his pastry, and began to tuck things away into his many pockets. Jashri could swear that the elf wore some type of magic pants of holding based on his ability to squirrel away so many things in them. They didn't look magical. He wondered if it were possible to see an enchantment just by looking at it. The last matchbox slid securely into hiding and the elf stood, unwrapping his treat once more and nibbling at it as he led the way east, towards the mountains and Morrowind: freedom.


	6. 5

"Are you really sure you want to go to Morrowind?" The glow of the campfire cast eerie shadows on the bosmer's bony face.

"I think so." Jashri toyed with the dagger strapped to his hip. Braedal loosed a dramatic, exasperated sigh and flung himself backward to lay upon the hard ground. Jashri's ears and tail flicked and he rolled his eyes. Similar conversations had played out every time they set up camp, weeks of the elf's queries. For a traveler, he struck Jashri as oddly reluctant to travel. Now that they had entered the highlands, nearing the border, his questioning was becoming more insistent, beseeching the khajiit to reconsider. Jashri took a breath in preparation to speak, glancing over at his ally only to discover that he had drawn his thin sheet over his entire body, including his head. Jashri snapped his jaws shut and shook his head, unrolling and shaking out his furs to lay upon the stony ground. The thinning of vegetation was strange and unsettling to Jashri, having lived in the forests of Cyrodiil for the most recent year of his life.

"I'm still awake, you know," Braedal's muffled voice drifted from his cocoon. "You could have said what you wanted."

Jashri finished laying out his bedding and sat cross-legged on the furs, facing the direction of the bundled elf. "I still don't understand why you don't want to go to Morrowind. One more day will bring us through the gates, and I want to know what your problem is before we go in."

A derisive snort came loud and clear from the bosmer. The bundle bulged and wriggled as he uncovered himself, sitting up and looking right at Jashri with his hard black eyes. "Dark elves."

Jashri's ears twitched, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. "What's wrong with dark elves?"

Braedal's short laugh was sarcastic and humorless, a kind of laugh Jashri had never before heard from the cheerful bosmer. "Morrowind's dark elves – what's left of them, anyway – are haughty, stuck-up, entitled, rude, xenophobic bastards." The dark eyes narrowed angrily, reflecting orange sparks of firelight. "I met a few when I lived in Valenwood. They're just like the Thalmor, but fewer and with darker skin. They hate anybody who isn't one of their own. And they're bitter after the whole mess with the argonians." Braedal's fidgeting fingers pried a stone from the ground and crushed it agitatedly against the dirt. The taught muscles of the bosmer's jaw betrayed clenched teeth. His gaze focused on the rock he punished against the earth.

"I can tell you have more to say. Say it." The bosmer heaved a short sigh and hurled the rock back to the ground, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't think it would be a good place for _you_ to visit, and I can't really understand why you even wanted to go in the first place. If anyone should hold a grudge against the dark elves, it's the beastfolk. There are still oppressed khajiit there, you know. Slaves. 'Servants.' Most of them have been liberated or their owners killed by argonians, but the Empire doesn't police Morrowind anymore and you know how much argonians care about khajiit. What's left of the country is the thriving home of illegal trade and lawlessness. Whatever you did to get the law after you, in that gods-damned land it's bound to be a thousand times worse." He threw an exasperated gesture to the east. "You don't belong there. I don't want to go anywhere near it."

"We're already near it."

"It's not too late to change your mind," the elf retorted, his eyes flashing. Jashri was taken aback. In all the weeks of travel, he had never seen the bosmer so fierce. This side of him was menacing. Jashri was silent, his eye contact with the elf breaking as Braedal flung the sheet over his face again. The guttering remains of the fire snapped dully in its last gasps of life. Insects droned by, whining softly. Jashri's shoulders slumped tiredly.

"Think about it, khajiit." The whispered words drifted to him on the thick night air. He glanced back to the elf, whose sheet began moved in the calm undulations of sleep breathing. Jashri quietly let out a deep breath. He lay back upon the soft furs, running a hand along his face like he had often seen his brother do. The velvet sky above twinkled with the points of stars, the dull glow of the moons peeking from their hiding place behind a distant mountain. They were the same stars that hung above the Imperial City, but he could see more of them here in the mountains. Tiny pale ghosts of stars winked dimly beside the familiar constellations. The same moons gazed down with their pale faces, bright vision pouring over the land. Did they watch, too, over the criminals and the khajiit toiling in secret across the border? Over long-abandoned family members given up for dead?

Jashri curled around himself into a little ball of sadness. He would be right to give them up for dead, to finally lose his childish fantasy of finding a family alive and well in the eastern province. Too many years had passed – about twenty of them – for any enslaved relatives to be alive, and had they escaped they surely would not have remained. He was sourly disappointed in himself. Too long he had expected to meet long-lost family, family that he and his brother had so long left behind.

Jashri bit back a startled oath. Ri'kel! His twin knew him all too well, knew of and shared his curiosity and interest in the region. Morrowind was his second most obvious choice of destination, the most obvious being Elsweyr. Surely the Imperial guards at the border would be alerted to keep an eye out for a pale gray-brown black-speckled Cyrodiilic khajiiti murderer. Jashri laid back his ears at the sky, berating his thickheaded self. He could very well be blundering right into imprisonment! His heart thudded at the excitement of discovering the risk and narrowly avoiding it, adrenaline keeping him alert. An urgent glance at Braedal showed him unmistakably asleep. Jashri impatiently gnawed his lip, supposing his realization could wait until morning, but they needed a new plan, and quickly. He refused to step into the waiting jaws of a trap.

The moons waltzed a stately dance across the sky. The khajiit could not quiet his racing mind or his galloping heart, so he watched the passage of the time and scolded himself under his breath for being such a fool.

Rays of sunlight stabbed through the sky, piercing Jashri's closed eyelids. He jolted awake. Somehow, despite his frantic energy, he had managed to doze off. He looked once more at Braedal. Sleeping. Jashri none too quietly stood, dusted off his sleeping furs, kicked sand on the cold ashes of the fire. Nothing left to do, he sat on a rock and fidgeted, unsheathing his dagger and twirling little pits into the loose ground cover with its tip. The shifting of the elf's thin, rustling sheet alerted him and prompted him to glance again at his companion. Braedal's large eyes blinked quickly as he pushed himself up from the ground, dusting the loose soil from his clothing and sheet as he sat. His gaze flicked around the camp and its surroundings, settling on Jashri. "You're up early." His voice was deep and rough with sleep.

"Yeah." The elf's gaze darted down to supervise the folding of his sheet. "I thought about it." His movements slowed almost to a halt.

"And?" His query was tentative and wary.

"I think Morrowind is a trap."

Braedal twitched with surprise, his confused eyes meeting Jashri's. "A trap?"

Jashri nodded. "My brother knows that I'm interested in Morrowind, it's one of the two most likely places for me to run away to. He'll have guards waiting at the gate to ship me off to prison."

Braedal gave a low whistle. "If he would really do that – predict where you're going and hire guards to get you – that's pretty impressive. I don't really see why someone as close as a brother would hate you that much, though."

"He was _very_ angry." Jashri looked down at his fingers, tightly entwined in his lap. He sighed softly and pushed the memory of that last encounter from his mind. "He threatened to send the guards after me. Usually when he says things, he means them."

"Seems a bit unlikely, though."

"Are you trying to make me want to go to Morrowind?"

Braedal laughed. "No, of course not! I'm glad you changed your mind. You wouldn't have fared well there. I'm curious, though, why did you want to go in the first place?"

"No reason, really. A silly fantasy."

Braedal finished folding his sheet without further comment and tucked the tiny fabric square into his pocket. "So, where are we going now?"

"You need to think of an idea. If I think of something, my brother will be able to predict it. He's known me forever, knows the way I think."

"Argonia?"

Jashri hesitated, his lips tightening and ears drawing back slightly. "Relax, I was kidding. You were right the first time, it's really wet and full of lizards who won't like you. Besides, there's nothing there." As Jashri's expression softened, Braedal procured his well-used map and briefly pored over it. "Skyrim?"

Jashri wasn't quite quick enough to stop his tail from flicking uneasily and his expression flashing momentarily with worry.

"All right, what's wrong with Skyrim?"

Jashri's teeth sunk into his lower lip as he paused to gather words. "My, ah, crime was against a group of nords. I don't want to run into their families, or friends, or anything." His objection sounded feeble even to his own ears.

Braedal's expression remained studiously blank, curiosity burning behind his eyes. "What are the odds of that?"

Probably very slim, but Jashri's anxiety did not like to listen to reason. Listening to reason would mean facing the guilt that got him into this situation in the first place.

Braedal nodded, misinterpreting his silence. "Exactly. Look, if the people you wronged live in Skyrim, would your brother expect you to go there?"

The khajiit's lowered ears slowly straightened as the brilliance of the elf's statement dawned on him. A smug smile creased the bosmer's olive-toned face, his dark eyes shining with satisfaction. "It's nearby, too. The closest region, besides Morrowind."

"I can't say I like the idea, but I guess you're right. It's the last place I'd have chosen to go."

"Even after Argonia?"

"Well, I don't know about that."

Braedal flashed a smile at the khajiit, his white teeth dazzling. "You'll see, going to Skyrim's for the best. Everything will end up fine." He got to his feet with enthusiasm. Jashri regarded him with a tinge of unease, the tip of his tail giving a small twitch. The bosmer merrily tidied the camp, more carefully concealing the extinct fire and sweeping smooth the disturbed soil. "I've never heard of anything very exciting in Skyrim, why are you so happy?"

Braedal's laughter chimed. "Jashri, I'm a bosmer! I love to hunt and fish. Haven't you heard tales of the kinds of creatures they have up north? Sabre cats, mammoths? The common creatures like deer are supposed to be twice as big as the ones here in Cyrodiil, and Skyrim's waters hold five times the amount of fish."

"I like to fish, too, but surely there's more to it than just that."

"Well, yeah, of course. I'd like to see Winterhold. Half of that city fell into the sea. It also has a pretty prestigious magic school. I've heard there's a college for bards somewhere up north, too, I bet that's interesting. And maybe we could climb the highest mountain in Tamriel and look over everything, like a god. There's plenty to see."

"If you say so. I just don't want to escape to Skyrim only to die fighting a dangerous beast. I want to be safely away from Cyrodiil and not end up in jail."

The elf shrugged. "Fair enough. I still want to hunt things, but I don't expect you to come with, even though it'd be exciting. I'm excited! I'd like to see how these northern creatures measure up to the ones in Valenwood. The camp's all put away, let's get going. The entrance to Skyrim's not far!"

"Not far?" Jashri snorted in disagreement. "We're all the way in the eastern mountains, we have to go to the northern center of Cyrodiil to get to the gate."

"It's closer than the journey was from where we started to where we are now. Not far in comparison," Braedal clarified matter-of-factly. Jashri sniffed, rolling his eyes in good-natured disagreement, and made haste after the bosmer as he strode down the dusty trail. It was nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding dirt save for its slightly different coloration and the fact that no plants grew upon the hard-packed surface. Jashri gladly greeted the idea of leaving the unfamiliar terrain. It was easy to hide in the thick Cyrodiilic brush they would shortly be returning to, the sparser foliage disconcerting to the fugitive. The finality of the decision not to enter Morrowind set Jashri's mind at ease, strengthened his conviction that the province had to be a trap and would be unpleasant anyway. The thought of entering Skyrim wasn't comforting, but the safety of the idea was. As they walked and he mulled over the plans, Jashri grew increasingly more certain that he and Braedal were making the right choice. Only one short journey, one backtrack, one winding web of game trails and back roads stood between him and safety from the clutches of Imperial guards.

Several days of hiding places and familiar smells both calmed Jashri and set his nerves on edge. The danger felt more real and immediate when the scents of central Cyrodiil surrounded him. Being able to conceal himself in shadow and shroud himself in undergrowth soothed, but not enough to curb his strong desire to flee the area.

Turning to the mountainous back trails wiped mixed feelings away, leaving the khajiit driven by his central desire to leave the province. The hilly northern regions struck him as very strange and beautiful, streams leaping from sheer rock faces into pools several stories below. Trees became more creased and wrinkled, the grooves in their trunks widening into deep canyons that separated plates of bark as hard and thick as armor. Leaves curled into wicked needles, morning frost glistening on their pointed tips. Luxurious flowered bushes shrunk to gnarled, hardy scrub clinging to gravelly mountainsides with knobby roots. The air cooled, scents grew sharper and cleaner. The scent of the trees was pointed as their needles, the wind carried hints of moisture. Absent were the rich earthy scents of soil and vegetation and the perfume of flowers. What flowers the bushes grew were small and scentless, attractive only to the eye. Chilly nights and icy mornings prevented plants from trying to be flashy, faced with the difficulty of remaining unfrozen. When Jashri mentioned this to Braedal, the elf laughed and assured him that the spring and summer were warm enough to let the plants be flashy; they were probably dull because of the season. Though not entirely convinced that he was right, Jashri supposed this theory possible.

The change of climate seemed to affect Braedal's attentiveness as well as Jashri's. While Jashri, no longer preoccupied with familiar scents, found himself growing more relaxed, Braedal seemed warier, on edge. The khajiit suspected that the elf, for all his knowledge of other places, did not know what to expect of the northern regions. He seemed uneasy, often checking the direction of the wind and position of the sun. They were no longer on familiar turf.

The map rustled in harmony with the fire's crackle as the travelers rested for the night. The air was crisp and clear, the small camp filled with the scent of cooking meat as Jashri roasted a cut of venison over the bright, hot campfire. Braedal lounged against a weathered pine, a splinter of bone he had been using as a toothpick spearing the air before his face, his eyes tracing trails on the parchment that hung limply from his hands. He grunted a little "hm," running his gaze over the page once more. "We're almost there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Looks like a day and a half to me, we could probably shave off a few hours if we're quick enough." Jashri listened intently, his ears perked with anticipation. Braedal folded the map. "Just a little over a day and you're off scot-free in Skyrim."

The scrap of meat slid, sizzling, onto a small cut of fabric serving as a place, and between bites of his meal Jashri managed to indicate his approval of the situation. Braedal's head bobbed up and down as he closed his dark eyes, relaxing in the warmth of the fire. "Thought you'd be glad. I am, too. Feels like we've been running for ages. Once we're past the gates we can relax, take it easy, do something for fun."

"Yeah," Jashri muttered softly, absently. "That would be nice." He'd lost himself in his own thoughts, once ignored due to the hard, tiring, blissful repetitiveness of walking the trails. The realization that escape was so close brought forth all the feelings that had ceded to action. There was the smarting of fear, the sickness of guilt, the pangs of loss and longing. Jashri wrapped his attention around cool promises of relief. As soon as he set foot through the gate, he knew, the weight of old fears would melt from his shoulders. Focus within, he mechanically drew out furs and lay down to drift into the softness of sleep.


	7. 6

The sun began its downward arc in the clear blue sky of the second day. Just over the day-and-a-half prediction. Jashri squinted upwards to mark the time, growing uneasy. His tail swished. "Do you think it'll be much longer?"

Braedal frowned. "I think I forgot to include the time we needed to rest. But we're making good time, I think."

"You think?"

The elf shrugged. "I've never been this far north, I don't know what we might run into on the way. Or even if my map is accurate."

Jashri's ears sunk lower against his head the more the bosmer spoke. "Well," he grumbled, "This trail has to take us _somewhere_."

"A main road, if the map was right." He sounded unsure, which only further flattened Jashri's ears and caused the travelers to fall into tense silence. The khajiit kept his sharp eyes peeled for any sign they could be off course. There wasn't much to go by. The terrain was unfamiliar. They were headed roughly northwest, as they had been for the entire trip from the gates of Morrowind to the current location. Mountains loomed on the horizon in three directions, some faint from distance. The plants were hardy, the rocks numerous, the trees thinning. Thin layers of frost and snow coated the scenery.

Rounding a bend in the trail, Jashri could see distant signs of a road cutting through the hills and boulders. "Looks like your map was right." He gave a soft breath of relief, relaxed, ears rising to normal height.

"I don't see anything."

"You will when we get closer." Lines creased around Braedal's mouth as he rose onto his toes, shading his eyes with a hand and squinting into the distance. Giving his head a little shake, he continued to walk. It wasn't until the road was completely obvious to the khajiit that the bosmer noticed it at all, to his instant relief, piping a witty comment about khajiiti super-sight, at which Jashri snorted. "Not all khajiit have perfect vision."

Braedal shrugged dismissively, his spirits high. "You do, and I'm sure most others do, too. You'll have to be our lookout. See the gates yet?"

"Not yet. Wait until I can see down the road." The only way to do that was to actually set foot on the road, and only if the road proved to be straight. Good reason not to slacken the pace. Jashri was certain he could walk no slower, excitement driving him on. Braedal, of course, perfectly kept pace, his stride effortless.

Jashri felt his shoulders tighten as they neared the openness of the road, his hand reflexively shrinking closer to his dagger. Its presence both comforted and disconcerted, and Jashri was not at all at ease wielding it, but it was one of his two forms of defense should something happen to him, his other option being the use of his claws, even the consideration of which was uncomfortable. So much hiding had trained Jashri that open spaces were dangerous, a habit that he assured himself he would remedy once he was safely in Skyrim.

He could feel the cool, hard cobbles through the worn soles of his leather shoes. The lightly trafficked, bumpy country road differed greatly from the busy tangle of roads surrounding the Imperial City, their stones worn smooth by the countless scuffs of thousands of shoes. It was also unlike the wispy, winding dirt trails that stretched through the wilderness, pitted and decaying due to a lack of presence. The cobbles of the oft-used but still spacious country road recalled memories of simpler times, surprisingly recent but seemingly foggy and distant in the khajiit's mind, times when all the world was free for exploration and excitement warmed Jashri at the thought of entering a new region. Now the fire of spirit was quenched by chill anxiety and uncertainty. Yes, he was excited – excited to feel free again, to have new experiences – but he also fled a terrible fate in Cyrodiil, a truth that lingered at the back of his mind, and entered a cold province that possibly contained the victims of his rash action. His fangs clamped onto his lip when he peered down the bumpy street, eyes met by the sight of the archway marking Skyrim's border, guards standing on either side. His heart raced.

"It's guarded." Jashri fought to keep a tremble out of his voice.

"Hm. What kind?"

"What?"

"The guards, Imperial or Skyrim?"

"I can't tell from here."

"Either way, they probably won't be happy to see us, on account of me being bosmer and you khajiit."

Jashri was puzzled. What could be wrong with their races? Braedal, perhaps noticing the khajiit's concern, paused only for a moment before continuing to speak. "If anything happens, I have a plan." Jashri nodded, unsure what to feel about this promise of a plan. Apparently satisfied, Braedal quieted and headed onto the cobbled road. Jashri followed, growing increasingly more uneasy as possible problems with the guards skipped through his mind. Only briefly did he pause to wonder what his more experienced companion dwelled upon, reasoning that Braedal, being a traveler, knew exactly what he was doing. This did not, however, reassure him. Just because he knew what he was doing didn't mean it would be a good idea.

As they drew closer, Jashri could define the guards, outfitted in iconic Imperial steel. Therefore, dangerous. Though probably not specifically on the lookout for him, as any Imperial guards in Morrowind or Elsweyr would be, these guards may have heard enough of his crime to treat him with suspicion. Certainly they would know his name. Jashri gave a short hiss to catch Braedal's attention. The bosmer still could not see the guards. "Yes?"

"Imperial."

"All right, thanks. Wait a bit and I'll have the plan perfectly laid out."

Jashri shuddered as a chill of fear ran down his spine. "Braedal, whatever your plan is, you can't let them know who I am."

The elf was silent, black eyes thoughtful. "It's best they don't know who either of us are. Whatever they ask will probably be a simple background check, but we could seem suspicious. . . just play along with what I do, okay?"

"What's the plan?"

"Don't worry about that. All you have to do is be tired, weary, submissive. Let me do the talking. I'm good at getting people to do what I need."

Jashri's anxious hairs prickled up on the back of his neck. He rubbed them down only for them to spring back up as soon as he removed his hand. "Okay."

"Good." The elf seemed to relax slightly, his shoulders lowering slightly as they lost some tension. "Thanks." His warm dark eyes gave Jashri an approving glance before darting once more to the road ahead. "Oh, and you'll need to hide that dagger under your cloak. They can't know you're armed." Jashri obediently unfastened the knife and re-secured it under the pale blue robe. His hands trembled slightly with nervous fear. What if the elf's plan, whatever it was, didn't work well enough? He swallowed past the anxious lump in his throat and kept close behind Braedal. The closer they got to the border, the more confident and sure his steps became. Part of the act? Jashri let his own tired body decide his gait for him, calloused feet losing their khajiiti lightness of step and plodding lazily against the cobbles. His spine slumped, and, deciding the bosmer was prepared for any threat, he allowed his gaze to fall from his surroundings to the path immediately in front of him. All that existed was the portal to Skyrim and the narrow path trailing up to it. He glanced at Braedal, faintly surprised that their eyes were at the same level. Braedal focused too closely on the task at hand to even acknowledge the khajiit's subtle appeal for criticism. Jashri's yellowy eyes returned to the path. As they drew nearer the stone arch, the guards straightened, their hands shifted to the hilts of the swords at their belts. Braedal's dark eyes dashed back and forth suspiciously under the cool controlled mask of his tan face.

"Stop right there, travelers." The guard's heavy nordic voice carried unmistakable authority. Jashri peered at the man with guarded interest. He was muscular, with plentiful, straw-colored hair. The lower half of his face cultivated a thick, short beard and mustache, above which perched a straight nose and shrewd, powerful eyes. He meant business. Repressing the urge to run took a great deal of effort. Jashri shifted his gaze to the smaller guard on the side of the arch nearest him. This guard was younger and clearly imperial, not nordic, his pale skin darker than his partner's, a shock of short dark hair atop his head. His expression was calm, as if he were merely doing a job, but creases at the corners of his lips and his many quick glances at the travelers betrayed deeper feeling. He held a book of papers, bound together with strings, and a piece of charcoal; probably for the purpose of keeping track of immigrants. Jashri couldn't afford to let his information get in that book, and the imperial's darting eyes made him nervous, certain that the guard knew they were up to something. He looked down at Braedal's leather-shod feet. They were more comforting.

"State your business," the nord demanded, his voice gruff and laced with suspicion. Jashri carefully let his teeth sink into the inner part of his lip, careful not to give the guards more to be suspicious about. He desperately hoped the elf knew what he was doing. When Braedal spoke, his voice sounded strong, bold, and unusually high-pitched.

"Don't mind us, please. I'm a mere trader, that's all."

The nord gave a short grunt of disbelief. "You so sure about that, wood elf? I don't see any goods. You two could very well be spies."

"Spies? Preposterous." Braedal fidgeted; his retort came much too quickly to seem completely honest. "And my, ah, goods are to be through here in a few weeks."

The nord flashed a dark look at his imperial companion, who shifted a bit and readied his charcoal. "Look, 'trader,' we can't just let in everyone who wants in. We're here because trouble's brewing, and we don't want any Thalmor trying to get a foothold up here. You look like you're hiding something. Your races are most likely to be working for them, we aren't letting you in until we're convinced you're not a threat. A shipment in a few weeks won't let you in now."

"Sir, a humble trader like myself cares little for politics; I just need to get in there and get ready to sell." Braedal's high voice wavered thinly, bordering on panic. Jashri tried to disguise his trembling, breathing quickening. Metallic blood tainted his mouth.

"Stop lying and let us write you down. Once we know what you're up to, you're free to go in." The nord's blue eyes were cold as ice.

Braedal tensed, his hands twitching and his black eyes darting between each of the guards and the open road beyond the gate. His tongue ran across dry lips. His voice dropped to just above a whisper. "All right, listen here." He drew close to the nordic guard. "I _am_ a trader, you see, just not the average type of trader. I've got a contract to finish and a client to meet. This cat is my, ah, 'traveling partner'." Braedal winked at the guard, a nervous, sheepish grin made half of desperation and half pleading spreading shakily across his face. A small pouch of coins clattered to the ground, Braedal toeing them closer to the guard's steel-clad feet. The guard's fierce eyes lit with greed and sly understanding. "Now, you see, due to the sensitive nature of my work, it would be best if we weren't on the books. This type of trade is something of a discreet nature, you know?" Several individual coins rang softly against the cobbles. The nord's hairy eyebrows raised, his expression pleased.

"I do believe we have an understanding, trader." he signaled to the other guard; the imperial's face was splotched with color and tinged with disbelief, mouth hanging slightly ajar as if to protest. The nord fixed him with an icy glare until until the imperial slowly slipped the logbook away and shut his mouth, eyes shadowed and mutinous. A swipe of steel boot scraped the money closer to the muscular nord, his face resolving into pleased impassiveness. "If you're ever in need of more clients, some of the folks in Windhelm take kindly to your sort of trade. Riften's a good place, too, just head east; but I'm sure that's where you're going, isn't it? You go right on ahead."

Jashri was incredulous. His brow wrinkled in puzzlement and he frowned gently as he and Braedal made their way across the border and into Skyrim. He glanced at the elf. "How-"

"Silence," Braedal demanded, his voice sharp and forceful. His hand flashed up as if to harm Jashri, who flinched quickly away and regarded the bosmer with fear and confusion. The black eyes were hard and impenetrable. He continued to stumble along beside the elf out of habit as his shaken mind tried to right itself after the blows of so many contradicting actions and expressions. For many moments he was simply struck dumb, thoughts whirling.

They rounded a corner, turning onto a dirt path, the now-distant arch concealed by trees and a large rock formation. Braedal paused, cocked his head as if listening. The usual wide white grin slowly spread across his face and he sprung joyfully into the air, throwing up his hands and letting out a little whoop. "That worked perfectly! I was afraid the imperial would stop us for sure."

Jashri could only watch his companion in stunned silence, amazed by how quickly his disposition changed. Braedal's eyes sparkled with joy as he peered at Jashri, smiling kindly. "We're out of earshot of the gate, you can talk now."

"Wow, we're in," Jashri managed weakly, his eyes roaming across the surroundings but taking nothing in. The sound of the guards' voices still drifted by on the wind, distracting him; they were not out of Jashri's earshot.

"Yeah, kind of amazing, huh? We'd better keep moving, though, find a good place to camp and make some plans." Jashri followed without comment, ears swiveled back to listen to the conversation behind them. He occasionally had to strain to catch the words over the sound of the gravelly trail crunching beneath their feet.

". . . not right, we should have stopped them." Jashri didn't recognize the unaccented voice.

"Look, boy, this is how the business world works. If you don't like it, transfer back down to Cyrodiil." The nord. The first voice must have been the other guard, the record-keeper.

"Accepting bribes is bad business."

A laugh. "The Imperial Watch is just as corrupt, I'm sure. Let go of your sense of justice, kid. All that really matters is the pay."

Faint words were garbled as a gust of wind swept by. ". . . report you."

"I'm your superior, you can't touch me. Learn from me, boy, you'll go far."

The voices faded as the distance between Jashri and the gate grew. He pushed back his hood in an attempt to catch more sound.

". . . talked to the right people, I could get you fired in an instant."

"And I could kick you out right now if I wanted to, without needing to talk to anyone. Lucky for you I'm lenient. Behave, or pack your bags and head back to the forest."

"Yes, sir." Even from so far away Jashri could hear the reluctance and belligerence in the imperial's voice. "But it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to let a slaver walk right into Skyrim. Slavery is illegal in the Empire, and Skyrim _is_ part of the Empire, as much as you may dislike it."

Jashri halted in his tracks, his ears standing stiff and fur prickling up. Slaver? His eyes locked on the wiry figure of the wood elf continuing along the trail before him. A sour taste crept into his mouth as a black pit of despair sunk in his chest. His ears slicked back against his skull, muzzle wrinkling into a grimace. He had always felt uneasy around the elf, but only now did he know the reason why. The bastard bosmer had set him up! Always there had been the secrecy, the insistence on going north. The dagger rasped from its hide sheath, hilt clasped in Jashri's hand, trembling in the grip of his extended arm. He hissed threateningly.

Braedal turned, his puzzled expression quickly melting into shock and genuine confusion. "Whoa, what's wrong?" He shot an alarmed glance over his shoulder, seeking a threat and edging his fingers toward one of his own knives.

"You, 'trader,'" Jashri snarled through gritted teeth, his sharp eyes and trembling dagger tip pointed focused on the elf. His tail slithered through the air like an angry serpent.

Braedal took a few steps towards Jashri, who tensed, the fur on his jaws and neck bristling. The bosmer's face was arranged into a seemingly nonthreatening expression. "Calm down, I can explain –"

Jashri growled, clenching his hand around the dagger's hilt until his knuckles whitened beneath the fur. His voice was low. "Don't come any closer." Braedal took another step. Jashri's voice rose, louder than normal speech but softer than true yelling – a voice of warning. "Damn it, I said don't! I'm not very good with a dagger, but I'm warning you, back off. I've done more with less."

Braedal's hands rose quickly to the level of his chest, palms open and facing Jashri in a clear gesture of harmlessness. His dark eyes flickered with something the khajiit had not seen in them before – real fear. The elf hurriedly staggered back a few paces, further away than where he'd originally been. "Gods help me, I'm traveling with a murderer," he gasped faintly, voice quivering.

"And I'm traveling with something a thousand times worse," Jashri hissed, shifting uneasily as he resisted his instincts to flee, to fight. His claws flashed out, despite his efforts. "Gods damn you. My parents were slaves." His menacing voice cracked on the last word.

"You misunderstand, really. I can explain, just give me the chance!" He was begging, pleading, and unlike every other encounter they'd had, Jashri could tell that it wasn't an act; the bosmer was holding nothing back. He stood stone-still, his mind running slowly against his instinct. "Fine. No tricks from you, elf. I will _not_ be tied or caged." The bosmer's breathing fluttered like a bird.

"No, of course not. I would swear, I would give my word, my honor – but none of that means anything to you now, does it? Of course not, you don't trust me. You can't, I get it. But I've been honest with you, really. I promise, no tricks."

Jashri's heart thumped fiercely, adrenaline made him tense and wary as he slowly lowered the dagger back to its sheath. He could not retract his claws. "We have a lot to discuss."

Braedal seemed to relax, his shoulders lowering and his hands dropping from their pose of vulnerability. His breath still quavered. "Yes, we do." They continued along the path a short distance, Jashri's eyes fixed warily on his traitorous companion, before turning off into the wilderness to find a clear, flat space to make camp. "We're stopping here." Neither of them mentioned the earliness of the evening or the loss of time they could be using to cover ground. Each spread out their bedding as far away from the other as possible and sat upon it, each silently keeping a close eye on the other.

Jashri broke the silence. "Everything you've said to me was an act. You pretended you wanted to help me. You kept insisting on going north. Convinced me not to go to Morrowind. You manipulated me, tried to make me trust you, convinced me to follow you here so you could sell me off. What in Oblivion are you, elf?"

Braedal sighed, laying his hands against his nose, their fingers nearly touching the angled corners of his squeezed-shut eyes. He looked aged, dark shadows cast on his face. His eyes took time to open, finally looking directly into Jashri's. "You of all people deserve to know me," he muttered, resigned. "I'm fairly sure you aren't one of _them_." He arranged himself more comfortably on his thin sheet, sitting cross-legged to avoid touching the soil. "I'm a rebel, chased out of Valenwood. Not a slave trader, not _any_ kind of trader. Just an outcast who committed treason against the Dominion. I can't be too careful about who I tell, they have loyalists everywhere, and if one of them finds out I'm as good as dead. Or perhaps worse. I'm not really sure how the Thalmor punish people for treason, but I'd prefer not to find out. I guess here in the Empire I'm more hero than criminal, though." Jashri's eyes were narrow slits. "Okay, I get it, you still don't believe me. By the gods – all the gods, mine, yours – I'm being honest. This is probably the most truth I've told since I left Valenwood."

"You made a pretty convincing slave trader. Why did you lie to the guards if you're not in danger in the Empire?"

Braedal groaned. "Bad habit? Idiocy? Take your pick. I've had to lie my way through years of travel to keep myself out of the way of the Dominion. On top of that, I've always been fond of acting. I used to do a lot of acting. All of that comes naturally now. Pretending to be other people." He gave a short, exasperated sigh. "I sound like I'm full of shit."

"Yeah. So if you aren't a slaver, why were we heading east?"

"We can take a different trail if you'd like. North, or west, or something."

Jashri shook his head. "I don't trust you."

"Nor I you. I don't expect you to." Jashri's tail flipped. For a few moments, cold silence stretched the space between them. "I had assumed that your crime was something less serious. Large-scale theft, or forgery, or tax evasion, something like that. Definitely not murder. You don't seem like a killer."

Jashri unconsciously curled his hands around his exposed claws, concealing them. His ears flattened, whiskers drooped. "It was an accident," he mumbled darkly. The elf's slim eyebrows raised, curiously encouraging him to say more. Jashri's tail gave tiny regretful swishes. "A traveling nord was saying insulting things. He was drunk. He talked about khajiit like we're just animals. We got in a fight." Jashri wrapped his arms across his stomach. He could feel the throb of his pulse against the side of his skull, behind his ear. Uncomfortable memories swarmed in his mind and he shifted, arranging his thoughts before speaking once more. "He was strong, a tough fighter. It was chance that I killed him." His fingers knotted themselves tightly together in his lap. "My claws were out, because I was angry, but they were in fists. I was hitting his face. My hand opened a little bit. I felt a claw hook on his skin, felt it tear. . ." He shuddered violently, chill despite his fur. The cold came mostly from within. His hand burned with the memory of the blood spilled upon it. He swallowed, clearing a lump from his throat, voice wavering as he continued. "I hid in the woods until my brother threatened me, and then I ran away. The nord was talking about Skyrim, mentioned he lived there, that's why I didn't want to come."

Braedal looked thoughtful, serious. His chin rested on his hands, eyes no longer focused on Jashri but gazing thoughtfully through him at some point in the distance. "I don't understand why you didn't just go to jail."

Jashri made an effort to keep himself calm; it had been long since he had truly thought of such unpleasant things. He shook his head. "I couldn't, I'd go mad." One of Braedal's eyebrows stayed low while the other arched up, questioning and doubtful even though the elf's voice remained silent. "I would be afraid, and if I get too nervous I'm terribly claustrophobic, and. . ."

"And?"

"Well, I'd be caged up. Like a slave. That's what's worst."

"'Your parents were slaves?'"

"Yes. Our mother for sure, and if what we were told was true, also our father. Mother escaped with us to save us – Ri'kel and I – from becoming slaves, too. She died soon after she got us to Elsweyr. If slavery was that bad, so bad that she would rather die than let us be slaves. . . I used to think about it a lot. I've always let my imagination run away with me, so I thought of the most terrible things. Now anything that seems even remotely binding sends me into a panic. And your stupid idea. . ." He paused, steadying himself with a deep breath. He held his hands in front of him as the claws retracted. His fingers shook terribly. "I'm starting to worry just explaining."

Braedal pressed a hand against his face. "Gods damn. I'm sorry, Jashri. I should've told you what my plan was beforehand and then we wouldn't have had this problem. I didn't know it would scare you."

Jashri was silent, mulling over the apology while the unpleasant memories churned muddily in his head.

"Yeah," the elf sighed, "I didn't really expect you to accept my apology. I mean it, though, I really am sorry. I didn't know you'd be afraid. And I don't expect you to trust me, not after that. We haven't exactly been open with each other."

"Braedal. . . what do _you_ fear?"

The elf's lips drew into a thin and thoughtful line. He had to think for a while, clearly not expecting the question. "Death. Death and bears. Actually, probably mostly bears."

"Bears?"

Braedal nodded.

"I can't really see why a hunter would be afraid of bears. Especially a bosmer. Are you sure you don't just dislike them?"

"No, no, I'm definitely afraid of bears." He paused contemplatively. "I suppose you'd trust me more if I volunteered information. I think I will.

"When I escaped Valenwood, I didn't do it alone. A few other protesters came with me. Most of the group split off and headed to other parts of the jungle. Some wanted to hide. Quite a few headed straight for Argonia, they didn't care about how foreign the culture is, they just wanted to escape. Two bosmer stayed with me. We thought up a long, complicated path to throw the Thalmor off our trail. First we headed south and east along the coast like we were going to Argonia, then at the border to Elsweyr we turned and headed northwest, back into the forests. Then we were going to head back east to the border, go back down to the coast, and follow that for a ways before going north again and escaping into Cyrodiil through Elsweyr.

"It didn't go as planned, really. We ended up off-course and further east than we'd planned, and when we backtracked we nearly ran into the scouts the Dominion sent to find us. When we headed up north we ended up almost to Cyrodiil, and we hid in a dense patch of forest about four days' trip from the border. We waited there for weeks before they stopped searching."

"What does this have to do with bears?"

"I'm getting to it.

"We ran out of food after a while – it was hard to hunt without being noticed because of the scouts. One of my companions fell ill, probably from the stress. He was a bit like you, actually, the way you were when I met you. Terrified of being found. His smell attracted the bear.

"Even though he was sick, my friend could fight. Of the three of us, he was the best fighter. Beat us whenever we sparred. He tried to fight back the bear." Braedal's black gaze had fallen to the ground before him, his eyes unfocused and unblinking. "He was doing well. Hurt it many times, but not badly enough to stop it. It just got more fierce. My other friend and I tried to control it, to make the fight easier for him, but it was too angry for us to stop it. We could feel its strength, its rage. Even though we felt it coming, we couldn't do anything to stop it. It was very, very pleased when it killed him. Broke his neck." Braedal's slight body trembled like a tree in a tempest. "I couldn't stand it. I broke the connection with the bear. I was too furious with it to stop and think. All I had was a shortsword. My friend hurt it quite a bit, but that bear had a lot of fight left in it. It was tough." Braedal's lips twitched as if to speak some more, but his mouth remained shut. Full minutes passed before he spoke again. "I did kill it, eventually. It broke some bones. I ended up scratched everywhere, a few really deep gashes. There are scars. . .

"I can't forget what it was like to feel what that beast felt. It had so much power, but it was like a machine. A machine made of flesh, fueled by anger, made for destruction." He shuddered. "And then I had to eat it."

"What? Why?"

"We were out of food, and my remaining friend convinced me. Bosmer religion demands that a fallen enemy must be eaten by the victor. It generally applies only to other people. My friend said the bear put up such a good fight that it was worthy of the honor, and that it was my kill, I deserved it." He gave a long, slow swallow, his face contorted as if tasting something sour. "Even if I weren't so shaken he probably could have convinced me. But it was a bad idea. Every time I got hungry enough to eat, I thought of the connection with the bear, and how angry at was, and how sickeningly happy it had been when it broke his neck. But it was that or starve, and I didn't want to be dead, too."

Jashri nodded slowly. "You didn't have to relive that for me."

"It's not as bad as you think," Braedal reassured him. "I've had plenty of time to find peace with it. Yours is still fresh. And it's different for you. You had your fear before your incident. Yours was also much worse – no offense, of course. I only had survivor's guilt, you're actually guilty." Jashri's ears flattened more closely against his head at each blow of the battery of words. "I'll tell you something that I think is important, though, if you're willing to believe me. It will never be entirely better. I still have scars, physical ones. I never want to see another bear in my life. And not once have I tried to command an animal since, not even the lowliest insect. I just can't bear to do it." He grinned sadly. "Pardon the pun."

Jashri nodded slowly. "I just wish it could all go back to the way it was." The tiny smile faded from Braedal's face. He was silent, but Jashri knew he felt the same way. "You were much better at telling your story than I was."

"I've had a long time to get my thoughts in order. It's nice to finally tell it."

"You're okay with traveling with me?"

The bosmer shrugged dismissively. "It was an accident. You're not a murderer; not intentionally, anyway, and as far as I could tell you weren't lying, so yes. I trust you."

"You're very trusting."

"You've done nothing to lose my trust." Jashri's ears relaxed slightly, his tail swished. Braedal peered at him closely. "But you don't trust me yet."

Jashri's lips gave tiny little twitches as he searched his mind for a definitive answer. Nothing. "I don't know."

"Well," the bosmer mused, "That's better than a 'no'."

"Braedal, what happened to the friend of yours that lived?"

"When we headed back down southeast, he told me he was tired of running away. I thought that was fair, we had been running for a long time. Since we were nearby, he just continued along the coast to the Black Marsh. I followed the rest of the plan by myself. Headed north through Elsweyr, took some back trails to Cyrodiil. And then I found you." Jashri's whiskers twitched as his mouth creased in slightly irritated memory. Even in hindsight, his meeting with Braedal did not amuse him. Eventually, perhaps, he would be able to look back on it and laugh, but with the freshness of the recent scare even the old one felt serious.

Jashri looked up at a crunch of dirt beneath boot, caught Braedal's eye as he stood. "I'm getting firewood," the elf explained. "It's getting dark and chilly and it would be nice to have a fire." The khajiit nodded. He watched as Braedal dissolved into the darkness, arranging himself more comfortably on his bedding. It reassured him that he was able to clearly hear the sounds of Braedal's footsteps, the light rustling as he picked up fallen branches. Jashri's dagger hilt jabbed uncomfortably into his flesh and he unfastened it, regarding it thoughtfully. _Why would he arm me_ , the khajiit idly mused, _if he were a slaver? He's more practical than that._ Something rustled on the edge of the camp, Jashri's eyes flicking to the source and returning to the knife when no threat was detected. His finger ran along the rough wrapped hide of the hilt, its sturdy leather showing little sign of wear. The elf was so deceptive, living in a shroud of lies. His transformation from traveler to slaver had been so effortless. Could Jashri trust such a man?

Such a man hunted to keep them fed. He had returned to the outlaw when the City had so much to offer. He had snuck through the trees and startled Jashri out of his wits. He had given him a dagger. Asked him to hide it, snuck him into Skyrim as a good – a mere object! His fur bristled. But then, there had been the look in the black eyes as the smooth voice spoke of the bear. Truth? The slaver act had been just as convincing, perhaps more so. Jashri's fingers met a rough crevasse where the dagger's hilt met the sheath. He absently slid a nail along the tiny canyon, soft scraping sounds issuing from the scratching.

He glanced up once more at another sound, a familiar sound, and saw Braedal crouched in the center of the clearing, a stone clutched in the slim fingers of each hand, the rocks sparking brightly as they clicked together. Glowing motes settled gently onto the pile of wood before him, illuminating a face serious in concentration. Small flames fanned to life. As the fire grew, it lulled the khajiit into warm semiconsciousness, his thoughts dissolving into a dreamy haze fed by the sounds and colors of the night around him. Finally, after all the tense hours, the muscle-knotting fear and anxiety, fur-bristling anger and confusion, Jashri felt the soothing waves of relief wash over him. The tautness of his shoulders melted to buttery softness; his fur, tangled and stuck with weeds, lay smooth against his skin. Finally out of Cyrodiil.

Soft sounds woke Jashri with a gentle touch. The warmth of sunlight caressed his cheek, glowed pink through his eyelids. He opened them, lazily. Braedal sat up on his sheet across the clearing, his well-used map draping across his lap as he peered closely at the top sections. Jashri rolled to his hands and knees, arching his back in a long feline stretch, tail flicking against the air with contentment. The excellent rest drained the weariness from his muscles, leaving him limber and brimming with energy. He noticed, eyes wide and ears pricked, a million little things he had been too exhausted and stressed to notice before. Tiny animals lived in the trees. A clump of fat plants gave off a milky odor. Tiny breezes pushed his whiskers, bent them and tried to carry them along on the journeys of the wind. It was a strange feeling. In Cyrodiil he had kept his whiskers clipped short after the fashion of Cyrodiilic humans, who kept their mustaches well groomed if they kept them at all. He flicked the whiskers with a twitch of his lips. They let him feel the slight stirrings of air made by insects and birds. Distracting. The things around him had not bothered him before, though, so the distraction had to be temporary. He decided to keep them, as a test.

"Ah, you're awake." Braedal shifted his map with a rustle, smiling gently at the khajiit. He nodded as his gaze swept Jashri up and down, smile brightening. "You look well."

"I feel well." His tail gave leisurely swishes and flicks, betraying the energy beneath his outward calm. "And you?"

"I've been better," Braedal remarked dismissively, appearing quite cheerful despite his words. His white teeth flashed in his olive-toned face. "But that isn't important. What _is_ important is deciding where to go next."

"What kind of roads do you plan on taking?"

The elf shrugged. "Does it really matter now? We'll take a mix of back trails and main roads. The further we get from the border the more comfortable you'll feel on bigger roads. As soon as we pick a destination we can decide how we want to get there."

"Fair enough." Jashri padded to where the bosmer sat and crouched beside him, peering at the thin trails of ink on the weathered material. Braedal shifted the map, angling it slightly more in the khajiit's direction so he could better see. His eyes followed the scrawled names beneath the dots of cities, recognizing few. "Winterhold? Is that the one that fell into the sea?"

"Yeah. Half the city is in the ocean, now. There's also a mages' college up there."

The tip of Jashri's tail flicked as he thought. The fallen city was all the way north, the very top of the province, far from the gate they had just entered. Jashri did not want to pass up the chance to see a new region and its fallen city, he wanted to explore. He remembered Braedal mentioning the city once; he would have the elf's full support. "I think we should go see it."

" _Now_ we can decide how to get there." Jashri's gaze traced the roads, followed the bold lines of major routes and danced along the lace of minor trails. He followed the roads from Winterhold south, aiming to connect to their current location. Several of the major routes passed uncomfortably close to Windhelm. Jashri frowned. "We are _not_ going near Windhelm."

Braedal's black eyes met Jashri's yellow. He held the khajiit's firm gaze for a few moments before sighing and and looking back down at the map, his head wagging back and forth. "They're not bad routes from where we are," he muttered.

The elf's reluctance to choose another path pricked at Jashri's lurking suspicions and began to sour his pleasant mood. "You know why I want to avoid it."

"Yes," Braedal conceded, "I understand." His fingers ran across the ragged edge of the map, straightening the soft material. "We'll backtrack west and take this road. It goes past this city here, but we could skirt it on the small trails if you'd like." Braedal's thin finger swept down the center of the province, calling the fragile little trails to Jashri's attention. "These roads are probably less traveled than the trails in Cyrodiil; a lot of them might be different, some could even be gone. In fact, many could be gone."

"We can travel by the sun and stars."

"Of course. I even check those when we do have reliable trails." Braedal planned the rest of the route I silence. "This is going to be a long journey."

"We've made it this far."

"And not too much the worse for wear," the bosmer chuckled. He tucked away his map, stood, folded up his sheet. "We might as well get going. Now that we have a plan, we should follow it."

Jashri agreed, standing as well and gathering up his furs. The chilly breeze refreshed as it ruffled his fur. He was free, and off on a new adventure.


	8. 7

The road was bold, the horse was steady, the shop was safe. Ri'kel was ready. He perched upon the sturdy back of his paint mare, a docile steed more used to carting goods than carrying riders. She was surefooted on the gently rolling Cyrodiilic terrain, obedient, and though she kept only a moderate pace she was possessed of remarkable endurance. It had taken many months to save up the coin required to buy her, and Ri'kel had never been more glad for the investment. The horse easily carried both rider and baggage with strength to spare.

Ri'kel was eager to finally get under way. Too much time had already been wasted, weeks of planning and fretting over the shop and the house and countless other inconsequential and inconvenient things. The longer he tarried the longer Jashri's head start grew. At last, wind breathed against his face, wild smells and sounds and the world around painted in streaks of gold, blue, brown, green. A light touch urged the horse to canter to the crossed and tangled roads across the great stone bridge. In that scrawl of cobbles Ri'kel now paused motionless, astounded at his lack of foresight. Despite the mess of concerns and questions, not once had he considered the most important concern of all: where had Jashri even gone? So now he sat, a tiny spider in an endless web of winding roads, finally puzzling that long-overdue problem.

He could narrow his brother's choice of destination down to two likely provinces, places to begin his search: Elsweyr and the little scraps of Morrowind. Jashri would feel safest and happiest in Elsweyr, where people recognized him and friends would welcome him in. Those same friends would surely write to Ri'kel if his brother were to show up. Perhaps, he mused, he should write to them. If Jashri were hidden among the khajiit, he would easily be found, of that Ri'kel was certain. He tapped the reins against the horse's brown-and-white splotched neck, directing her onto a path that would likely lead east once it got around the lake and the City. Luckily for Ri'kel, the bright, well-trained horse kept to the path, turning with the bends and pausing when the roads joined to wait for instruction. Spared the immense effort of navigation, he could relax and enjoy the fair autumnal pleasantness of the day. The chill air was expected in this late month, and the trapping of the sun's warmth beneath the khajiit's fur kept out most of the cold, felt only with a prodding from a stiff breeze. The perfumed air smelled dry with the dust of fallen leaves.

His attention unable to be held by scenery, Ri'kel's thoughts turned inward. Plans finally set into motion, he found himself empty and listless. The idea of traveling all the way to Morrowind was not an enticing one. Since he had settled in the City, the bookish khajiit had had few reasons to leave, none so pressing as this. He found the necessity unfortunate. Leaving the shop in the hands of another and abandoning the painstakingly crafted forest home filled Ri'kel with remorse and worry, but such concerns paled in comparison to the regret surrounding the situation with his brother. He let out a long, slow breath, rubbing a hand against the side of his face. All of this was his fault; it could only be worse if he deliberately tried to make it so. The way he had spoken that night, the threat, the anger. Now Ri'kel's honor, his business, his very name were on the line, all because he lost his composure. His mind now freed from the chaos of preparation, he was free to torment himself further, but found his tired emotions used to the punishment. All that remained was a dull, hollow ache of regret and loneliness.

He hadn't realized how much he would miss his twin. Even when his mind knew Jashri was not there, every moment he had expected to turn a corner and find the near-identical khajiit; whenever he closed up shop at night his ears strained for the playful unaccented voice that once called from behind the shelves. Before, when his brother camped in the woods, Ri'kel kept enough contact not to notice the absence, his brain too exhausted to keep tabs. After, though business still held his attention, the senses noticed something missing, a piece of the puzzle of everyday life. Ri'kel understood that void, his thoughts free to dwell upon it. He sighed. Morrowind fast approached, and soon, he hoped, he would catch up to his brother.

* * *

Ri'kel could smell the land of Morrowind, and it was different. Strange scents floated all around him, gathering closer as he neared the border. The calm horse plodded on; Ri'kel absently patted her neck. He was weary of the roads, though the horse made a decent pace. After the year of comfortable living, travel no longer held any appeal. Dust clung to his every disheveled hair, sweat chilled his body, his clothes felt stiff and scratchy. Just a little further, he reassured himself. The gates neared.

A couple of brutish guards stood watch on either side of the gate. Each carried a long spear, stretched it across to the other side of the arch to halt Ri'kel's passage. They stayed silent, flat dark faces angled toward him. Dunmer. His ears flicked nervously under their scrutiny. "He's just a traveler, he's free to enter. If he really wants to." The rough, haughty elven voice belonged to the guard on Ri'kel's left. Leaning over on his horse to better see the speaker, Ri'kel made eye contact and patiently began his search for information. "Could you perhaps help me locate someone?"

"Depends." The guard shifted, leaning on his spear to bring himself closer to the khajiit. His features came into focus. "What do you need and what do you pay?" His voice became lower as he spoke.

"I need to know if a khajiit passed through here in the past several weeks. He looks almost exactly like I do. I have reason to believe he came here." He carefully left out any mention of pay.

"A free khajiit entering of his own will? Don't hear that often. Let me check." The guard turned, heading behind the wall he stood beside, his footsteps softening as he made his way to a barracks. The other guard rested a hand upon the sword at his belt and eyed Ri'kel warily, shaking his head at the khajiit's questioning look. "Don't try anything stupid. You're obviously unarmed and untrained, and your horse won't help you fight."

Ri'kel tried his best to appear harmless, but the guard did not relax, standing poised until his partner's footsteps thumped once more against the path to resume position. His head swayed back and forth as he addressed the khajiit. "Nothing. Nobody has seen a khajiit like you." Before he could collect himself, Ri'kel's face fell, and the guard, troubled, added, "Perhaps he's camped nearby, or went to a neighboring province."

"Yes, perhaps," he muttered doubtfully. The trail was cold.

"Several camps were discovered in the area recently. One of them could have belonged to your target." The guard shrugged. "People skulk around the borders all the time."

"Could I pass through to find a place to stay the night?"

The dunmer fidgeted in thought, his fingers drumming against the wood of his spear. "You could, but I wouldn't recommend it. It would be safer for you not to enter the province at all. Look, you strike me as an honest boy – and a khajiit, imagine that! Morrowind doesn't want honesty. It doesn't want the good or the virtuous. Only here on the outskirts would you last more than a week. Unless you're a smuggler or a slave, my kind want nothing to do with your kind. I suggest camping outside and leaving as soon as you can."

Ri'kel fished in his pocket for a few septims and handed them down to the dunmer. "Thank you for your trouble." The dark elf slipped the coins away, nodding acknowledgment. A brush of rein against the horse's neck, and she turned to carry Ri'kel back down the path he had just climbed. The light was waning and he brought the horse to a halt, patting her neck appreciatively as he slid down her side and leading her to a small flat patch of land not far from the path. From the saddlebags he procured a small, soft travel mattress to sleep on and a stale hunk of bread for sustenance. As he nibbled at the crust, he fell once more to pondering his sad situation. If Jashri had not entered Morrowind, he must have gone to Elsweyr, and Ri'kel had wasted valuable time traveling to the wrong province. He had sent letters to his connections in the desert asking after his brother; had any come back positive, a runner would have been sent to carry him the news. Could his brother simply be hiding? Ri'kel could not imagine Jashri risking himself by remaining in Cyrodiil, but perhaps the fugitive khajiit was simply avoiding contact in Elsweyr, or decided to sneak around the guards to cross the border into Morrowind. Scenarios pricked at Ri'kel's mind, each less likely than the last. He ran a hand across his face in frustration. From his other hand the chunk of bread fell to the ground, forgotten. He hadn't much of an appetite. There was a prickling at the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes and his ears lay back against his head. Where could he go? Every scrap of Tamriel could hold his twin, every tree in every forest could conceal the stealthy khajiit within its shade. Ri'kel was merely mortal, he could not scour the continent for a single creature, especially one that did not wish to be found.

He hardly minded the moisture clouding his vision. Bleary white blobs of stars watched over Ri'kel as the dull pains of disappointment lulled him to sleep.

The animal sounds of the dawn woke Ri'kel long before the light brushed golden fingers against his camp. He found his head remarkably clear, unmuddled by the previous night's emotion. His body, however, ached from too many days on horseback and not enough in comfort. The hard-packed earth exacerbated his soreness, standing causing his voice to creak and groan in harmony with stiffened joints. The painful task of re-saddling and packing the horse was carried out at a leisurely pace, slowed not only for comfort but also by the distraction of clear thought.

Jashri liked Elsweyr and was interested in Morrowind. Either one would be ideal for flight from the law. Elsweyr was not connected with the Empire, had a comfortable climate, and was familiar. Morrowind was part of the Empire, but so small and neglected that it may as well not have been, it was lawless; as a bonus, it was highly interesting due to its prominent role in their family history. Why would Jashri _not_ choose one of those provinces?

Ri'kel had known the answer. He had chosen to ignore it, letting it linger in the back of his mind, but now that he was out of options it was necessary to face what he knew. It was his fault Jashri would not choose an obvious province. Ri'kel had scared his brother into running away. Jashri feared _him_ more than the law, for he threatened to bring the law down upon him. The unfortunate outlaw would not choose a province to escape from Cyrodiilic guards, he would flee to a place he thought Ri'kel was unlikely to search for him. But had it taken Jashri long to realize that? Had the fugitive initially fled only the law, he may have chosen a province near Elsweyr or Morrowind.

Perhaps. . . Ri'kel silently chided himself for not considering the possibility earlier. Jashri would flee to the place Ri'kel would least expect him – Skyrim. It was near Morrowind and Jashri had every reason to avoid it. The weather was unpleasant, the sights uninteresting, and a chance existed to stumble across the victim's family and friends. Ri'kel knew he grasped at the faintest straws of ideas, but the more he considered the province, the more sense it made for his brother to hide there. Perhaps he now had a lead to work with.

Suppressing the pangs of guilt and twinges of protesting muscle, Ri'kel gingerly mounted his horse and directed her toward where he remembered the path to be. He knew that as soon as he blundered into it, the intelligent animal would follow the road until it met another or petered out into nothingness. A tiny glint of hope now sparkled within the muck of the khajiit's sorrow, and he treasured its appearance. He could only hope that his promising idea amounted to more than nothing. An icy breeze wafted down from the north, ruffling his fur and prickling chill in his lungs. He relished the sensation. It kept his mind on the light ahead.

* * *

Piney scents drifted through the cool air, caressed Ri'kel and tousled his ungroomed whiskers. The sharp, spicy aroma of the strange trees reassured the khajiit, told him he headed in the right direction. The smells of lush Cyrodiilic vegetation subsided, soon faded to little more than a taste of home on the breeze. He clung to such scents; they comforted him during the dark and lonely nights. He felt he was making progress, long sweeps of road eaten up by the days. The border approached. Ri'kel could hear the faint buzz of distant voices, a sure sign of the presence of the arch leading into Skyrim. He urged the horse to pick up the pace. She trotted steadily around a bend, trees and boulders clearing aside and revealing a wide path free of obstacles. At the end loomed a structure, faint and distant, that Ri'kel was certain marked the place where Cyrodiil ended and Skyrim began. He thought a brief farewell to the land he had grown to call home, vowing to finish his quest and return soon. Already he yearned for the comfortable familiarity of the towering white walls and sturdy wooden doors of the Imperial City, but he knew it could not be called home without his brother's presence. The border approached. Faint smudges of guards materialized on either side of the arch that stretched over the path. Ri'kel squinted. He could make out no detail. He had not expected to.

"Halt." The deep voice was thick with the accent of the nords. Ri'kel reined his horse to a stop and turned to face the sound, his eyes falling on a large armor-clad man. The guard's face was wreathed in blond, tiny sparks of eyes glinting against his pale skin. He smelled of steel and cold and outdoors. "What're you here for, cat?"

Ri'kel's tail flipped from one side of the horse to the other as he considered how to reply. He hoped his voice would hold for him. Many days had passed since he had last spoken. "I am looking for someone."

"Really now?" The guard's thick arms folded across his chest, the armor scraping against itself. Suspicion dripped from his nearly indecipherable words. Ri'kel was unsure what the man was suspicious of, for he was certain he had done nothing illegal, but the distrustful tone of voice made him nervous anyway. "Yes, a khajiit. Very similar to myself." The arms uncrossed with a soft rasp. The khajiit relaxed.

"Ah. Probably not a problem," the guard grunted dismissively. The guard on Ri'kel's other side, a taller, slimmer man who had been silent, now chimed in. "We are required to ask why." His voice, also carrying a nordic accent, was not as deep in pitch as the first guard's and was better understandable. Ri'kel nodded friendly agreement to the request. "There is a family issue between us that I would like to discuss with him."

The tall guard turned toward the first one, who, nodding his hairy head, grunted, "Acceptable." Procuring a stick of charcoal and a pad of paper, the tall man looked expectantly at Ri'kel. The khajiit peered back with confusion. The guard sighed. "Name and home province, sir."

"Ah," Ri'kel muttered hesitantly, "Is this really necessary? You see, I would first like to check if he is actually here before I enter the province, because if he is not I do not plan to go in."

"You can check the records after you're recorded in them. You have to enter to look at them anyway. Name and home province?"

Sighing, Ri'kel provided his information. The guard had more questions than just the two. He asked for age and eye and hair color as well as other, unimportant things. "Very well, we're done. Go ahead in."

"Where do I go to see the records?"

The man with the pad of paper glanced uncertainly at the burlier nord, who grumbled, "You take him." Tucking the writing implements away, the lanky guard grasped the horse's bridle, gently leading her to a flat and relatively grassy space on the Skyrim side of the wall. Ri'kel felt a very faint and underwhelming sense of wonder. He was in another province, but for all the wrong reasons. The guard instructed him to dismount, to follow to a door in the stony wall, and to go inside.

Inside smelled pleasantly warm and faintly homey. The subtle and familiar scents of ink and parchment, paper and melting wax wafted through the air. Comforting, but not perfect. The sharp tang of metal, leather, and oil pierced and sliced through the warmer, friendlier scents, reminding Ri'kel that he had entered a guard tower. He could hear the faint movements and breaths of other people within the building. Slipping in behind him, the tall guard stripped the top page from his notebook and placed it into a small box on the wall beside the door. "Continue down the hallway, the door in the wall at the end of the corridor is the record room. Someone there will help you." He was back out, the door thumping shut behind him, before Ri'kel could respond. He hesitantly padded down the hallway.

Many rooms branched from the long hallway, some with open doors, but many shut. In one room a darker man wielded a broom against a dusty stone floor. His hair was black, his skin a shade darker than a nord's, his frame small, familiar. Imperial? He seemed thoroughly absorbed in his sweeping. Ri'kel continued on. Through the few open doors he could see many crates, roomfuls of crates. He wondered if they contained the records of every person who had ever set foot in Skyrim. That would explain the sheer number of boxes, the number of filled rooms. Some rooms were shut; perhaps the details of more people hid behind those doors, gathering dust while those recorded lived out their lives in the province. Had Jashri come here, Ri'kel was confident his name would be on the books. The guards were well-disciplined, organized; they would have him filed neatly away.

Ri'kel's knuckles rapped against the door at the end of the hallway. A soft "enter" sounded from within, and he turned the brass knob and slipped inside, where a guard in near-full armor sat behind a desk sorting scribbled papers and making careful marks on a clean page. "Can I help you?" He did not pause in his work. Ri'kel did not want to interrupt him if he was busy.

"Yes, I believe you can. Whenever you are ready, of course."

"I am ready." The papers shuffled unceasingly between his plump white fingers.

He made a quick calculation in his head, trying to determine the earliest Jashri could make it to Skyrim. "I need to know if a khajiit passed through here since the middle of Frostfall."

"Plenty have. Be specific."

"He is nearly identical to myself. Light fur, yellowish-greenish eyes, brown speckles." The guard appeared to have all of his attention focused on the papers before him, but Ri'kel hesitantly continued in hopes he was listening. "He would have entered through this gate, as I did. He probably wore blue. His voice carries no accent." The papers stopped their rustling as the guard lowered them back to the table.

"That's more like it. I'll see what we've got."

The chair scraped softly against the floor, and the world was oddly quiet. There was only breathing and the occasional clink of armor or fluttering of paper as the record-keeper sifted through the records. There was nothing from behind the door, not even the sound of sweeping from down the hall.

"Did you want a name?" Ri'kel helpfully asked.

"Nah. We don't really sort by name anyway." He selected two sheets of paper from a tall cupboard and slid them onto the desk in front of Ri'kel. "This is a list of all the light-colored khajiit registered here in the past several months. Look over it as you please and hand it back when you're finished." The pale hands collected their previous papers and began to rustle through them once more. Ri'kel drew the two pages closer to him and peered intently at the names. J-. . . Ji-. . . Ja-. . . nothing. Swallowing the small lump that rolled in his throat, he glanced through the names again. Perhaps they had misspelled it? J-. . . Ja-. . . Jo-. . . nothing again. He gently pushed the papers away from him, something heavy sinking in his chest. "Is there anything more?"

The record-keeper set down his papers again and collected the two khajiit records, moving to file them away once more. "Only dark-colored khajiit, and if the one you're looking for is as light as you are he definitely won't be there."

Ri'kel nodded softly, stepping to the door. "Thank you." The recorder grunted acknowledgment, sinking back down into his seat. Ri'kel padded out, his eyes low.

A pair of feet stepped casually into his view of the ground, and he looked up at their owner. A smallish imperial man stood before Ri'kel, a strange expression on his hard-to-read human face. Ri'kel's ears twitched in confusion. "So," said the man genially, "You must be new here. There's a great inn down the road a ways, I go there every night for the excellent food." The khajiit was thoroughly puzzled, but he was delighted at the familiar, understandable imperial accent. The man seemed to sense Ri'kel's bewilderment. He moved slightly closer to the khajiit and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Look, meet me there later tonight. I might have information about the one you're looking for." Surprise widened Ri'kel's eyes, swished his tail, perked up his ears. The dying spark of hope withing him stirred gently. A humble sweeper with information about a khajiit who was never recorded as crossing the border? Doubtful as it seemed, Ri'kel would not pass up the chance. He nodded. The sweeper nodded back with a slight smile and walked back down the hallway, picking up his dormant broom and waking it against the stony floor as Ri'kel slipped back outside into the fresh air and daylight.

The paint horse looked up from the grassy stubble upon which she grazed, setting calm, watery eyes on Ri'kel. She greeted his smell with a friendly snort. Flinging himself gracelessly over the saddle, he urged her back to the road, to take them to the inn. Orange already smudged the sky as the afternoon waned, but even so Ri'kel was certain he would meet the inn before nightfall.

Skyrim's northern air snapped coldly at the khajiit's fur as the late breezes whistled by. The trees' piney needles rasped against each other as they swished with the wind. A warm glow peeked from the deep shadow that hung between the trees, beckoning the khajiit. He was glad to dismount and let the warm blood flow back into his heavy legs, to tie up the horse with fumbling fingers that he could barely see in the rich night, to shoulder open the strong wooden door and enter the temperate climate of the inn. Ri'kel's gaze wandered uncertainly. A blur of people and tables surrounded him, and he was unsure where the imperial sweeper wished to meet with him. He slid slowly onto a wooden bench near the door, his attention focused on those entering through it until they dissolved into the mess of other people within the large room. Though his tail betrayed eagerness to hear what the imperial had to say, Ri'kel largely succeeded at appearing perfectly calm and composed. Hours ticked by.

A dark, small man entered comfortably, smiling gently when he caught Ri'kel's eye. "Come with me, khajiit," he amiably offered, beckoning. He led Ri'kel to a corner table, slightly more secluded than any of the other tables in the cluttered room. As he passed the bar on the way to the table, he called out an order for two drinks, barely slowing his pace. He pulled out a chair for Ri'kel, waving him into it, and sat on the opposite side of the table facing the khajiit. His delicate imperial hands twined around themselves, folding on the table as he looked at Ri'kel. A strange expression crossed the human face, nearly indecipherable to the khajiit. He waited patiently for the imperial to speak.

A metal mug dully thudded against the table before him, the liquid inside sloshing precariously toward the rim without spilling. He sniffed hesitantly at it. Mead. An identical mug had been placed in front of the imperial, who sipped at it. Ri'kel left his untouched. The imperial frowned. "Go ahead and drink it, it's on me." Ri'kel took a small sip to be polite, which seemed to satisfy the man; it at least lifted his frown. The khajiit's tail lashed as he began to grow impatient.

The imperial sighed and set down a half-empty tankard. "I get it, you want to get right to business. Looks like you're the real imperial here." Gesturing for Ri'kel to wait, he pushed himself out of his seat and wove through the forest of tables to the counter, exchanged words and coin, and returned. "I've rented a room so we can talk without being overheard, and you can stay in it tonight, if you want."

Ri'kel nodded, rose, followed the hospitable human up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, eventually to a locked door at the hall's end. A key appeared in the imperial's outstretched hand, offered to the khajiit, who took it hesitantly and inspected it. It was brass, gave off the familiar brassy tang, and had a number engraved on it that matched the number on a small metal plate nailed to the door. The lock opened without resistance as Ri'kel slipped the key into the keyhole; the door opened easily and quietly on well-oiled hinges. The room behind it was much larger and better-furnished than any Ri'kel would have rented for himself. A wardrobe stood stately in a corner, the head of a simple bed met the next, a table topped with a bowl of pastries and a bottle of some drink lingered in the third, two wooden chairs pressing against the walls beside it. The fourth corner held the door, through which khajiit and imperial entered. The imperial made himself comfortable at the little table, Ri'kel calmly following suit, his eyes trained on the man and waiting for him to begin. The man plucked one of the pastries from the bowl before him and rolled it between his hands, not making eye contact, his attention distant. Ri'kel crossed his arms. The imperial slowly regained awareness.

"I should start with an introduction. I'm Devinn, an Imperial guard. Right now I'm posted at the border here." Ri'kel wondered why a guard had been sweeping the record room instead of guarding; the imperial seemed to pick up on his confusion. "Right now I'm an underling of sorts. The Empire stationed me here because of the threat of Thalmor takeover, and some of the nords aren't very fond of accepting support. They think they're good enough not to need Imperial help." A look of distaste crept over Devinn's face, the corners of his lips pulling down and sharp creases lining his face like he had eaten something foul. "They also don't like me because I have a sense of honor and decency. Skyrim guards are corrupt. They like bribery and let well-paying criminals do whatever they want. In the Empire, law should be treated like law!" He shook his head sadly. "But I'm just an idealist."

"Excuse me," interjected Ri'kel, exasperated, "but what does this have to do with the khajiit I seek?"

"Everything," sighed the guard, folding his arms on the table and leaning down in dismay. "I've failed to uphold the law and that's why you can't find him. My shift leader – you probably saw him out there, hairy blond nord – accepted a bribe and forced me to do the same. He called my righteousness 'insubordination' and that's why I have to sweep the buildings." Ri'kel kept his yellow eyes fixed on the guard, his arms folded across his chest, silently demanding information.

"The khajiit that you're looking for passed through a couple of weeks ago. You're going the right way. But I have some bad news. He's been captured by a slaver." Ri'kel was incredulous. Jashri, caught by a slaver? In Cyrodiil, home of the Empire, where slavery was illegal? His brother was too intelligent and too stealthy to be so easily caught, and he would undoubtedly fight back. He raised a furry eyebrow. "The slaver was a small elven lad. He bribed us with this." The guard procured a tiny cloth bag, emptied the gleaming coins within onto the table. He slowly shook his head. "He paid us not to record them in the logs. I failed at my job that day. I didn't protect the innocent, didn't uphold the law like I should have. This is the only way I can fix what I've done wrong." He pushed the coins around on the table with a finger. "Who is this cat to you? He must be important if you're chasing him into another province."

"He is my brother. We had a misunderstanding and I must set it right." As he spoke, Ri'kel realized that the zealous guard would be doubly upset if he learned that the slave he had failed to save was also a wanted criminal. He was careful to watch his tongue.

The imperial nodded sadly. "If he's still in the province, he'll probably be in the east. The watch captain told the elf to go to Windhelm and Riften. Windhelm is especially unfriendly towards khajiit. Riften is close to Morrowind and deals with a lot of trade, including illegal trade. Take this money." Devinn shoved the pile of coins toward Ri'kel. "I can't keep it in good conscience, it was dishonest pay. Take it. Your brother's captor is paying you to find him."

Ri'kel accepted the gift with gratitude, sweeping it into a small bag and tucking it into his own coin pouch. Although he was eager to be on his way now that he had information, weariness dragged him down and held him to the comfort of the inn, and the friendly imperial guard lingered in the room. He slumped in his chair, relaxing his weary body while his mind mulled over the new leads. Devinn sat quietly across the table, his head low, ashamed. Sighing, Ri'kel attempted to distract him from his shame; he was too grateful to him to let the guard leave unhappy. "You were transferred here, yes? Where in Cyrodiil are you from?"

"Bravil. I was stationed mostly there and around the Imperial City, in small towns and settlements, until they asked me to come here. Cyrodiil was better. None of these nords who think law enforcement isn't a serious business, taking personal bribes and not following orders."

"Cyrodiilic guards take payment, too."

"It's different. Or, for me, it was. Reparations for minor crimes, like accidentally picking up a bucket belonging to someone else. Paying off little bounties. Nothing like this, this is worse, this is wrong! Smuggling, slavery, not being recorded in the logs, and we just let them go. I can't wait for a promotion, a transfer, anything that can bring me to where I can enforce the law instead of breaking it."

"You have a lot of guilt."

"I've been thinking about it ever since, while I've been sweeping the record rooms. There's nothing I could have done. If I completely disobeyed the captain I'd be out of a job, and I wouldn't be here to try to fix this mess. We'd both be out of luck."

"Thank the divines for our meeting, then."

Devinn's forehead wrinkled. Once more he took up the pastry and rolled it between his hands. "I thought khajiit worshipped daedra?"

"This one worships the Nine."

The guard gave a little grunt of interest and fell silent, tracing the grain of the table. "I think what bothers me isn't that it was payment – repaying a crime is okay, lawful. This one, he wasn't paying for a crime, he was paying to keep us quiet about it. He evaded the crime." Devinn set the pastry down and rested his chin in his hands. Ri'kel felt pity for him, but the conversation turned in pathetic circles and he wished to be informed, not to hear of a guard's troubles.

"You said they were headed to Windhelm, yes?"

"It's likely, and probably to Riften if not there."

Ri'kel nodded. "You have helped me more than you think. Probably enough to make up for whatever mistake you think you made. Do not worry. Go back to the border and rest, it is late."

Devinn began to rise slowly from the wooden chair, but paused midway through and looked beseechingly at Ri'kel. "Can you come tell me when you find him? I'll want to see that I actually helped, it would set my mind at peace. You'll still be able to find me here, unless I'm transferred again, in which case I'll leave a note for you."

Ri'kel nodded. "I owe that to you. Thank you."

The troubled guard gave his own gratitude and departed, the door shutting smoothly behind him. The khajiit sighed. He had a place to look, but, though unlikely, Jashri could be in trouble. He promised himself to worry only when it became necessary and picked himself up from his chair to throw himself tiredly across the bed. It was surprisingly nice, the sheets cool and clean-smelling and the furs well-groomed and tidy. He cocooned himself in the soft cloth and quickly drifted into a sleep brought on by exhaustion.


	9. 8

As the distance between him and the gate grew, Jashri's anxiety ebbed. The landscape slowly changed from crisp frosted greens and earthy browns to sparkling white and rugged grays. Sunlight flashed on the ice and snow, substances fairly foreign to the khajiit, and their beauty impressed him. The Cyrodiilic landscape had been filled with rich color, vibrant flowers and luscious leaves painting the world in exciting and powerful tones. The Skyrim landscape was coated entirely in shades of gray, leaving the beauty to the piles of frozen water that draped across the rocks. When the light touched it, the snow sparked and glittered, dazzling the eye into darting away, but in the few moments available to behold it, the icy cover held as much glory as the Imperial province's forests. Light danced among the crystals, shot off tiny rainbows beside the blinding flashes of white. Jashri had heard many travelers complain of snow, call it monotonous, irritating, boring. The khajiit could not tire of looking at it. It was wondrous stuff.

Braedal was not as impressed. He complained and grumbled about the wetness, the brightness, the difficulty of trudging through it when a drift happened to drape across the path. The trail tended to stay clear of snow; it collected instead in puddles of shade on the branches of the trees, in the rivers beside the rocks, in the creeks of crevasses running down the sides of cliffs. As they made their way through the wilderness, following the faded trails northward, snow collected on the paths more and more.

They came around a range of mountains, bare black rocks topped with frost and softened with snow, and beheld a white world before them. The bosmer muttered indistinctly, procuring his ragged map, folded in such a way that it showed only Skyrim. He waved Jashri over and the khajiit joined him, peering interestedly at the parchment. "We're about here." A lean tan finger indicated the medium-thick ink line of a road that snaked towards the northern coast of the province. "If we continue along this path, it should bring us right to Winterhold." Jashri pulled his eyes from the map and glanced across the tundra. A black line tracked through the snow, stark against its whiteness just like the inky trail on the pale page. The surface of the dark stone path was remarkably clear of the thick white blanket of snow that lay heavily on the rest of the landscape, smoothing and concealing it from view. Jashri supposed there was enough foot traffic on the fairly important road that it stayed visible under mild conditions. A soft rustle tucked Braedal's map away, and the travelers continued quietly on their journey. The colors of the sky reflected off the snow as the sun bled orange on the clouds, and they plodded on until the darkness of the path blended into the the shadowy ground. Light flurries began to dance from the black sky. To the khajiit's delight, the flakes caught in his fur, mottling him with dainty specks of white. His tail swished contentment. Lifting his eyes to the sky, he watched the pale swirls of snow standing out against the black clouds as brightly as the hidden stars against the night sky.

Braedal brushed against his arm, disturbing the tiny flakes that had settled there, and Jashri's attention turned to the elf. "Is that a good campsite over there? You can still see in this gods-damned darkness," the bosmer grumbled, waving towards a large rock that loomed a short distance from the path. A scrawny pine struggled to stand beside the stone, using it as a crutch, and scrub huddled around at its base. Jashri nodded. "It's good enough. Probably even enough fuel for a fire."

"Perfect." Braedal purposefully strode to the area, his footsteps leaving deep gashes in the otherwise pristine snow, and began to clear space and gather bits of fallen plant material. Jashri quickly followed suit, sweeping away the moderate layer of snow that dusted the ground the plants grew on. In warmer seasons, the campsite would be a gentle bump on the terrain. The thickness of the snow made the area appear flat.

Jashri helped collect fuel, snapping off bits of the scrawny plants for Braedal to arrange into a small pile, stacking branches from the tree in a way that would be conducive to fire. He tapped together the stones he carried in one of his many pockets. A shower of sparks died on the frozen ground. An immense effort brought forth a weak, guttering campfire. Its pitiful warmth and wan light were savored by the travelers nonetheless. Eyelids drooped. Braedal gave a wide yawn, his sheet materialized in his hand, and in one fluid motion he wrapped it around himself and lay down. Jashri flopped his furs to the ground, thumping himself down after them and gazing mindlessly at the flickering fire. The lapping, struggling flames lulled him into semi-consciousness, a glazed stare his window into the world. Soft breezes fluttered by, ruffling his fur and sending whirls of snow before his uncaring eyes. Their sounds rushed in his ears. He was barely conscious of the darkening and extinguishing of the fire, the cold black ashes mingling with the snow. The snowfall was thickening. It did little to the campsite, protected as it was by the rock and the scraggly little tree. Jashri's back faced the tree, the wind bit coldly at his skin and his fur puffed up to keep it at bay. Somehow, in his sleepy daze, his hood found its way over his snow-teased ears, and he remained comfortable. The dark lids relaxed, sliding over eyes weary from squinting into sunlit snow.

A soft clicking noise flicked Jashri's eyelids back up, startled a flick out of his tail. He squinted into the darkness. The tree was not breaking. No animals were coming. His ears swiveled atop his head while his eyes swept the scenery. The extinct fire had gathered a white frosting of snow. It did not click. Something near it did. Jashri's gaze moved slowly across the area around it. A bundled bosmer quivered under two sheets, one of cloth and one of frost. The thin fabric was hardy, Jashri had seen it repel rain and dirt without a problem, but the icy cold bit through and sunk its frigid fangs into the smooth-skinned elf. He shivered silently save for the occasional clicking when his teeth met and chattered together.

Shady as he was, Braedal had shown much kindness to Jashri. He helped him hunt, helped him escape, snuck them into Skyrim, and now traveled with him for no reason at all. Despite all of his suspicious actions, his unknown motives, Jashri couldn't watch him suffer without feeling unhappiness. He was glad to have brought two furs. Snow cascaded from the khajiit as he stood, snow his warm pelt protected him from feeling, and he padded softly through the frozen carpet that dug sparkling little knives of cold into the pads of his unbooted feet, made his way to the bosmer, and gently, quietly, he draped a warm fur over him, careful not to disturb his sleep. It was amazing that, teeth chattering, the elf could still sleep so deeply. Jashri quickly fled back to his remaining fur, lay gazing over the dead fire, and soon his heavy eyelids shut the world from him once more.

Braedal had dusted off the site of the old fire and sat peering thoughtfully at the new one as he prodded it to life. His thin sheet draped over his thin shoulders, barely warmth enough against the snow that now fell and the lingering chill of the night. The gaunt face was bleached with cold, striking black eyes standing out even more boldly. Once stiff and fresh, worn clothes hung limp and ragged off a travel-hardened frame. Jashri absently stirred the snow and wondered how much he had changed. He knew of some changes. His already lean muscle had become wirier, his frame reduced by scarcity of food. The whiskers on his lip hung unclipped and long, luckily stiff enough to keep clear of his mouth. Fluff grew on the sides of his jaw, too, warming his neck and making his face feel strangely wide. It had been long since he had encountered a mirror, and he was intensely curious.

The popping of a log in the flames pulled Jashri's attention back to the immediate, and he glanced around. Braedal absently ran his hand over the fur Jashri had given him, the fur that he currently sat upon. Hearing Jashri stir, the bosmer looked up. Noticing the khajiit's attentiveness, the black eyes darted back down.

"You didn't have to, you know." The slim fingers stroked idly against the fur. Braedal's voice was soft, gentle. There was a note to it that Jashri had not heard before. The khajiit shrugged.

"I had an extra. I wasn't cold, I'm covered in fur. All you had was a sheet, and you were shivering."

Braedal nodded, his eyes wandering around the ground. "I've lived through worse." He paused, his sentence ending oddly, as if he had more to say. "But thank you. That was kind." His eyes pulled themselves from the ground to look briefly at the khajiit. There was gratitude in them; it was sincere. In his gaze, too, dully burned curiosity and wonder. Braedal could reasonably be surprised, for Jashri had never been exceedingly friendly towards the bosmer, always treating him with distrust and suspicion.

With difficulty, the elf speared a chunk of near-frozen meat onto a stick and twisted it over the fire to thaw. His free hand passed another piece to Jashri. Snow hurried aside as the khajiit searched for a skewer of his own, coming across a frost-crusted branch from the tree and working to impale his icy breakfast. Fire lapped eagerly at the food only to hiss and turn away as the ice melted and dripped upon it. Jashri suspected they would need to hunt soon, these leftovers wouldn't last forever, but he had seen fewer animals as they traveled further north. The next meal could be a challenge. He savored the current one, tough and chilly though it was. As he ate, he watched with amusement the bosmer's attempts to bundle the fur in various ways, scowling deeply at each failed attempt as it unfolded. The fluffy blanket simply would not remain orderly enough for Braedal, and finally with a sigh he gave the fur back to Jashri for carrying. No matter how hard he tried to fold it, there was no way he could fit it in once of his pockets. The thin sheet he did not put away, instead tying it around his neck and draping it over his shoulders like a cape. It kept the lightly falling snow from soaking into threadbare clothing made for more temperate travel.

Camp packed, the travelers trudged through the deeper snow back to the path, now faint from the night's snowfall. Clusters of rocks huddled beside the road, markers guiding those unaccustomed to the trail. Heavy whiteness collected on Jashri's boots, weighing down cold and weary feet and slowing progress across the tundra. He gamely continued. The smaller and less weather-resistant Braedal faced the same obstacles and he trekked along just fine; there was no reason the khajiit should not carry on, tiring as the travel could be.

The morning's weather was pleasant, snow falling only in gentle flurries, and the horizon was clear enough that Jashri's keen eyes could make out the sea over the edge of the frosted cliffs, tiny islands of ice floating in the cold blue waters. He wondered what mysteries were concealed within those depths, but refused to consider stopping to find out. The promise of the fallen city was much more interesting. As the day wore on and Winterhold grew nearer, the snow fell thicker and the sea hid behind white curtains. Without the protection of the mountains, the northern wind stung with its full power, biting even beneath the fur of the khajiit to chill him. Braedal pulled his cape closely around himself to shut out the breeze; Jashri pulled up his hood, warming his ears and soothing his mind. The blue of the fabric could be seen in his peripheral vision, a color that comforted him and kept his mind from dwelling on the uncomfortable weather and the aches of travel, exacerbated by the cold. The travelers held their gazes down in order to remain on the trail – to get lost was to lose hours of progress, if not more; possibly even a life. Even with the thick cloud cover the whiteness caused them to scrunch up their eyes into squints. Jashri began to understand why so many people disliked snow. It _was_ cold, it _was_ wet, it had little variety and was harsh on the eyes, it was difficult to trudge through. Though the snowfall concealed any landmarks from view, Jashri was comforted by the thought that Winterhold grew nearer and they would soon reach it if they pressed on.

* * *

Snow fell in soundless torrents on the roofs of Winterhold. The little town more closely resembled the villages of Elsweyr than the grand walled Imperial cities. A city housing a major university, a one-of-a-kind school of magic, was expected to be prestigious, not a cluster of wooden buildings perched on a cliffside. The unusual architecture struck Jashri as squat and compact, buildings reaching only a few stories and built small to keep warm more easily. He and Braedal did little sightseeing upon arrival; snow threw itself angrily at the travelers, icy crystals stabbing at exposed flesh like tiny knives, swirling confusing patterns to try to drive them off course. The sight of buildings, however strange and unassuming, was a relief, and they quickly shut themselves into an inn.

Almost everything inside the inn could be described as warm. A fire roared in a long trough dug into the floor, making the room warm in temperature and in the color of the light. The wooden, earthy tones of the walls and furniture were warm. The food that turned on a spit over the fire was warm. The clothes of the other patrons – warm. The drinks – warm. Jashri wiggled numb digits and gladly absorbed the comfortable warmth. Braedal's cape unknotted by fumbling fingers and draped across the short stone wall surrounding the firepit, the snow on it melting and beading up into droplets that rolled onto the floor.

There were a few things in the inn that were far from warm. The glances of the patrons, mostly garbed in furred robes and mages' clothing, bit with the cold of the blizzard outside, and the bartender's greeting was fairly frosty. A mediocre bard piped on a flute, leaning against one of the room's thick wooden pillars, taking no notice of how he grated on everyone's ears.

Braedal stepped lightly to the counter, sliding several coins to the slightly frowning bartender, and was handed a key to a room. Jashri raised a disbelieving brow. "One room?"

"One of us will sleep on the floor," the elf shrugged. "You've got furs, and the floor will be more comfortable than a ground filled with rocks."

"It'd be a lot more comfortable to just get two."

"We don't know how long we're going to have to stay here, or where we're going to stay wherever we go next. It's smartest to pay as little as possible. And don't worry, I think I'd prefer to sleep on the floor anyway."

Jashri grudgingly admitted to himself that the bosmer had a point. There was a reason Ri'kel had always handled the business end of running the shop, and it was that Jashri valued immediate comfort over delayed gratification. Jashri liked feeling, Ri'kel liked to think. "I guess that means you're borrowing the furs."

"That was the plan, yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, just making sure. We ought to get you some of your own, when we get to traveling again."

"That sounds great, but I can't carry around a bunch of furs everywhere." Braedal picked up his near-dry sheet, the few remaining beads of water rolling off onto the floor.

"But you _can_ freeze. Which room is ours?"

"Second from the bar on the far wall." Braedal twitched his head in the direction of the room, his hands busy folding up the sheet.

The door unlocked with some difficulty, the room behind it small and plain. A rough-sheeted bed huddled against one wall, a tiny wooden table squatting by its side. Just enough room remained for a smallish person to lay on the floor beside the bed and nightstand. Luckily, bosmer were a small race, and Braedal would be plenty comfortable with such little room. Depositing the furs onto the floor with a soft thump, Jashri padded out of the room to order something inexpensive and filling from the innkeeper. Braedal passed lightly through on his way to lay out the furs. The khajiit brought back enough food for the both of them, and they ate in silence before falling quickly into warm, exhausted sleep.

The following day dawned clear, cold, and prime for exploration. Jashri perched on the cliffs, peering down, down at the sea that lapped at the rocky shore far below. Not a trace remained of the half of the town that that chill blue water had devoured, but the view alone was impressive enough to keep the khajiit occupied. He sat higher than most of the roofs of the Imperial City, marveling at tiny rocks that he knew were really as big as his woodland house, so distant as to appear a fraction of their size. Ice bobbed gently on swells, the indigo ocean filling the cracks between the white floes like the metal of a stained-glass window. Gray animals lumbered along the beach and rested on the rocky shore, so unusual and far away that even Jashri's sharp eyes could not help him guess what they were.

Braedal was not long entertained by the view – Jashri supposed that he could not see far enough to appreciate much of it – and instead ambled through the houses nearest the cliffside, abandoned after the fall. Weather beat its way through dilapidated roofs, snow piling up in drifts within, discoloring and warping wooden interiors. Despite the holes, the houses stayed warmer and less windy than outside, and Braedal had to admit that he was unaccustomed to the frigid northern climate. The salty, icy breeze raised bumps on his skin. He wondered that Jashri could so casually lay on his belly in the snow, gazing down at the sea, without growing unbearably cold. Simply looking at him made the elf shiver. Luckily for him, the khajiit soon stood, dusted the white from his clothing, and began to wander through the abandoned homes as well, fingers brushing the ridges of the frostbitten wood.

It was relaxing to truly explore, something Jashri had not done in years. Once, he had explored the deserts of Elsweyr, the forests of Cyrodiil at his leisure while Ri'kel was distracted by other things. Just as absorbing was turning over the tundra, peering into the crevasses of abandoned homes and catching frost-coated glimpses of another existence. He rounded a corner and found Braedal, the elf's scrawny arms wrapped around himself and bony fingers tucked beneath his armpits. The exploration ended with a sigh. "We ought to visit a trader and pick up some warmer clothes."

A reluctant nod from Braedal. "No more than what we need."

The plain shop was comfortably warm and reminded Jashri of his own. Miscellany crowded the small shelves; pots and cloth, dried herbs, bottles of liquor all huddling together. Most items must have been local, Jashri did not recognize them. Thick goblets squatted on a low shelf, crafted much more heavily than anything of Cyrodiilic make; beside them, bowls and plates with the same lumbering grace. Weirder things lounged atop a shelf nailed to the wall, alchemy ingredients that the khajiit recognized few of. There were the rare salts, frost, void, and fire; there were many varieties of dull plants he had seen in the region; and, much to his curiosity and disgust, there was a hairy toe as big as his entire hand. The other side of the shop held the clothing, a glimpse of boots and trousers assured Jashri, and he headed carefully in that direction, picking his way through the disorder. Several shelves down Braedal frowned at furs, selecting the thinnest pelts he could find and running them through his hands.

Most of the clothing selection consisted of mages' robes and enchanted items, much to Jashri's disappointment, but he managed to find several serviceable garments in much-too-large nord sizes. The fabric was sturdy, much heavier than Cyrodiilic garb, and several of the shirts had thick fur linings. Good travel wear. Heavy cloaks lined the shelves as well, catching the khajiit's eye, but he refused to try any; his travel robe would remain perfectly serviceable with some light repair work, and none of the expensive selection even came in the right color. The real master work lay with the boots. It quickly became apparent that nords liked their boots sturdy, and every single pair was far superior to the tattered leather that clung to Jashri's feet. Having chosen replacements for his pathetic garb, he tracked down the store owner to ask after smaller sizes; luckily she was able to find at least one smaller size of each garment he had chosen. Upon exiting the storeroom, he encountered Braedal waiting patiently at the counter to make the same request, his chosen replacement clothing in hand. Instead of bringing him to the back like she had Jashri, the owner left Braedal and his wares at the counter in the company of the khajiit. Jashri looked over the things Braedal planned to buy. Plain leather, sturdy cloth, string – clearly the bosmer planned to make or improve some of his clothing on his own – and a thin, soft fur. "So you _are_ getting a fur?"

"Of course. I could freeze."

Jashri gave a soft snort of amusement. A faint smirk lifted the corner of the bosmer's playful mouth, fading as the shopkeeper returned, apologetic at the fact she had nothing in Braedal's petite size. As he drew out the coin purse the elf mumbled something about that being okay, that he hadn't really expected to find anything small enough, and Jashri noticed how reduced the size of the pouch was. "Excuse me, miss"– salesmanly authority crept into his voice –"is it really fair to charge him so much if you don't even have his size?"

She stopped in her transaction as if stricken, her face smoothing in surprise; Braedal's coin pouch dropped back into one of his pockets, his eyes glinting conspiratorially. "I'm sorry, sir?" Jashri slowly and carefully slid his own items onto the counter, more comfortable and confident with his hands unencumbered.

"You're asking him to pay full price for these things, and the clothes aren't even going to fit him. Look, look at all the other things he has to buy." Jashri gently gestured at the cloth and string in the pile of items on the counter. "He has to get these just to make his clothes fit, because he couldn't get the right size to begin with."

The girl looked bewildered, her hands fidgeting nervously. Set up so far north, it was unlikely that she got more customers than the resident studious mages. He kept his voice smooth and friendly, tried to find another, less threatening angle. "This is a wonderful shop, when we walked in I thought for sure we would find what we needed here. We're traveling, of course. Clearly we aren't wizards. We thought it would be fun to see the town. Stop by, relax, take a look at the college, and stock up on supplies before heading back onto the trail. I bet a lot of people come here for supplies, right?"

She seemed to have regained her composure enough to speak, her blue eyes had hardened. "We don't get a lot of travelers besides the mages. Only enough to make it worth my while to keep supplies in stock."

Jashri nodded encouragingly. "Yeah, I guess I can see why. This is pretty far north, practically the top of the province, right? A little out of the way for most. But the people who do come here, people like us, they must give you plenty of business."

"Enough, yes. Most of my customers are the mages."

"Well, then, you keep it well-stocked, I found exactly what I needed, but my partner, here. . . we were hoping we could just stop here and the be on our way, and it's inconvenient to have to buy extra things, spend extra days cutting clothes into shape. Weather's harsh up here, we were pushed around by a snowstorm on the way in, and we don't want to be trapped by another one. The inn is plenty comfortable, but we're wandering souls. And the mages. . ."

She made a little sound of contempt. " _That_ I can understand. They aren't very friendly, are they? I don't like them any more than you do, but they buy robes and ingredients, so I stay."

In her dislike Jashri saw an opportunity. He seized the opening. "Yeah, that's why we were hoping we could just grab some supplies and go. We were sure that with such a selection we would have no trouble finding the right sizes, either. There have got to be wood elves at the college that are his size, I'm very surprised that you had nothing. I'm an unusual size, too, and you managed to find me clothes that are a perfect fit. I'll gladly buy mine for all they're worth, but it seems a little unfair to charge him so much for clothes that don't fit, and then even more just to fix them."

"You do have a point, and I can see why you want to be gone. . ." She looked at Braedal's pile of merchandise, expression thoughtful. "The string's free."

"And the shirt? It's twice his size, that's going to take a lot of fixing. We'll probably be at the inn another day, stuck with all those wizards." He shuddered slightly. "We'll pay half price."

"Then the string's full price."

"Half price for the string, too. We wouldn't need it normally."

She hesitated, clearly weighing her options. Jashri signaled to Braedal below the counter where the shopkeeper couldn't see, silently requesting the coin pouch. The bosmer carefully handed it to him without the slightest jangle of coins. The salesman slowly ran calculations of his own in his head. Luckily the shopkeeper was just as deliberate with her thoughts. In the Imperial City, the deal would be done at Jashri's hesitation, and not in his favor. He slid coins onto the counter, arranging them to look plentiful. "Here's my offer. For all of our things."

The nord leaned over the coins, counting, thinking. "Very well, I'll take it," she sighed, drawing the money closer to herself. Jashri gathered his purchases, thanking the shopkeeper and wishing her well, and exited with Braedal on his heels. The door shut behind them with a smart click.

"That was interesting. You got us a good deal, my silver-tongued friend."

"I know I could have gotten lower. She accepted the first offer I made, it wasn't the best deal we could have gotten."

Braedal shrugged. "I'd have paid full price. You're persuasive, you know."

"Part of my job."

"I was under the impression that you were a merchant."

"More of a salesman, actually."

Braedal made a little sound of interest but did not further press the subject. They entered the inn for their final night renting the room. The cramped room felt even smaller with the new purchases heaped on the tiny cot and sliver of floor. Jashri shrugged off his cloak, gathering the threadbare material in his hands and settling onto the bed to inspect it. The edges were riddled with snags and tiny holes, threads trailing raggedly from the hems. His ratty shirt, now replaced by the newer, warmer one, was a deeper shade of blue but would certainly be suitable for repair work. He pulled it off over his head, glancing over to where Braedal sat cross-legged atop the furs, both his and Jashri's. "When you've finished with the string, I'd like to use it."

Lost in concentration, the elf nodded. He was hard at work improving his many-pocketed pants, turned inside-out before him with the many pockets emptied out in little piles around him. The inside was much more complex than the outside suggested; an orderly arrangement of pouches and concealed pockets ran down the entirety of both legs, stopping where shoes and boots would get in the way. Networks of strings connected the pockets, preventing them from bunching up or folding over themselves. If the pants were enchanted, it certainly was not a strong enchantment, for the design alone was sufficient to hold copious amounts of items. Jashri was impressed and slightly unnerved by the number of knives that glinted among the piles of said items, surprised by the many things he had never seen before. Common brass keys, small items, bits of scrap and wire, buttons, countless miscellaneous things that Jashri could not imagine the bosmer had a use for. Magic or not, these were pants of holding.

Braedal made an excellent tailor. The new fabric melded effortlessly with the old as he mended and reinforced worn areas and patched tiny holes in the pockets. Clearly he could not have found an adequate replacement for such an unusual garment. His hardy leather shoes, the shoes that had so easily allowed the bosmer to sneak up on Jashri, remained as well, the bits of hide the elf had purchased readied on the floor beside them. In order to produce such quality work, however, Braedal worked slowly, each stitch careful and deliberately planned so as not to mar the cleverly designed clothing. The cot, though rough and uninviting, was fairly comfortable, the inn warm and quiet save for the soft sounds of rustling fabric and gently crackling flame, and as the night wore on Jashri found his patient waiting turning to the black embrace of sleep.

He woke to find a blue piece of fabric draped across his naked torso, his body sprawled across the bed. Blurry thoughts stirring with murky confusion, he slowly sat and held the fabric out for inspection. It was his hooded travel cloak, the holey edges repaired and reinforced with the darker blue material of his old shirt, the remainder of it strategically arranged for warmth. The entire inside of the hood was lined with the softest part of the shirt – good for keeping his ears from freezing, but Jashri would miss catching glances of the gentler, more calming blue of the original fabric out of his peripheral vision. The excellent quality of the improvements had him willing to simply try to get used to it.

The craftsman himself lay across the three furs in impenetrably deep slumber, his own improved clothing back on his body, accompanied by the warmer and now-fitting shirt he had purchased from the trader. All items were once more concealed and stashed away. Jashri wondered how long it had taken the bosmer to work on everything and how late it had been before he had gotten to sleep. Quietly, he pulled his own new clothing on, leaving only the cloak off until they departed, and waited in patient silence for his traveling partner to wake.

Only an hour or so passed before Braedal's dark eyes fluttered open and he sat up, stretching and rolling a kink from his neck. "Thanks, Braedal." Sleep-clouded eyes blinked in confusion until Jashri called attention to his traveling cloak with a few appreciative gestures.

"Oh, that." A yawn broke the bosmer's sentence. "No problem. You were asleep and I'm fairly good at patching things up, no use waking you for something I could more easily do myself." As he stood, the elf rolled up the furs and handed all three of them to Jashri.

"My bag only holds two, you know." The makeshift tentcloth fur carrier was worn, too, and probably would not hold together if another fur was squeezed in. Braedal's mouth tightened into a line of mild disappointment and he reluctantly slung his newly purchased fur across his shoulders like an unfastened cape. All things accounted for, the pair crunched off along the snowy street, Braedal drawing out his map and beginning to unfold it. "Don't bother, we're going west. When we meet other paths we can decide where to end up."

Braedal shrugged, tucking away the tattered parchment once more. "Sounds like a plan." Clouds above blocked the sun from shining brilliantly against the snow, instead shading it in calming, monotonous gray, easy on the eyes. Occasional flurries of snow fluttered down, several stamped flat under the travelers' boots. Though it had originally been a convenient excuse in the supply shop, as he considered it more it became apparent to Jashri that many of the mages residing in the town _were_ unfriendly, and their coldness had left the travelers feeling unwanted and eager to leave. Aside from its precarious perch atop the sole patch of cliff unaffected by the collapse, Jashri found the College of Winterhold underwhelming in comparison to the Arcane University. His impression of the weathered gray building was further soured by the fact that only students were granted access, and a test was necessary to determine magical ability, of which Jashri had none. Braedal could have been admitted if he were willing to demonstrate his natural creature-controlling abilities. He would not. With little interest in the College besides touristy curiosity, and no interest in using such magic again, he simply declined. Though interesting, the fallen city was far from inviting. It felt nice to be on the road again.

As unfriendly as the city was, the road made a far worse host. Finding a spot to make the evening camp took several hours due to the thick blanket of snow heaped upon the ground. Eventually they managed to find a rocky hill, many stones protruding into a formation that limited the amount of snow on the ground in addition to a helpful rise in elevation. Only small scrub grew comfortably close to the camp, nothing substantial enough for a hearty fire. Fire was mostly unnecessary anyway; they had no food. Braedal curled up and wrapped his fur around his diminutive frame, head tilted back to watch flashes of colorful auroras dance between the clouds. "We'll hunt tomorrow."

Jashri, rolling out his own bedding, gave a murmur of agreement.

"We should decide where to go now, save some time." The bosmer wriggled in his fuzzy cocoon until he had extracted his map and peered at it closely. "There's not much out here." Jashri crouched beside the elf and looked over his shoulder at the parchment, his eyes tracing the thick line of the road they followed.

"We can stop at this Dawnstar place if we need to rest or get supplies. It's right along the path if we keep going." He rolled his furry shoulders in a shrug. "I'm not particular about where we go, now that I'm free. I just won't go anywhere that will stop me from being free and safe."

"So right now, do you consider yourself free and safe?"

"Mostly. Not certain about safe."

Braedal nodded, his eyes not leaving the map. "The tundra is a dangerous place." Neither touched on what they knew was the true issue – trust. Arguing would not foster trust. The elf swept his eyes along the map once more before folding it away. "Let's detour to the seaside tomorrow instead of following the path. We can hunt some of those creatures you saw. After that we might as well head back to the path and follow it all the way west. Maybe south, too. I've heard Markarth has some very unique architecture. Built by an extinct race, they say. That could be interesting. A little close to Hammerfell for my liking, but then we can head north and maybe go to High Rock." His eyes flicked to Jashri for the khajiit's opinion. Jashri sprawled on his back across his furs, entwined fingers resting on his belly, watching the sky with interest. His tail flicked. "Like I said, I don't mind where we go as long as I know I'll be okay. All of that sounds okay. I'd be arguing if it didn't."

Braedal bundled his fur around himself again, sealing out the cold. Skyrim nights were chill and quiet. Few animals were active to make sounds; there was only the wind across the tundra and the sounds of the travelers' breaths. Neither had the rolling calm breath pattern of sleep, both travelers wide awake after the day's travel.

"Jashri?"

"Mm?"

"You said you were a salesman?"

"Yes."

"What did you sell?"

Jashri shifted softly, his pelt rustling against his furs. "Trinkets, odds and ends, that sort of thing."

"Hm." Wind whistled through the gap in conversation. "You seemed like an experienced haggler."

"I'm better at selling than buying. It's easier to point out the usefulness of something than the faults. Everything is useful. Not everything has faults."

"Very true."

A soft hot cloud of a sigh melded with the icy breezes rushing by. "I liked being a salesman. It's fun, you know. Meeting new people, selling them something that could help them. I was good at it. Made a lot of sales." _I wonder how the shop is doing now._

"With your skills, I can see why. You must have been successful."

"We made enough to make ends meet, at least."

"That's all? I thought city folk were big buyers?"

"People don't buy what they already have."

"Mm, right." Braedal yawned and his breath began to slow as he drifted to sleep, ending the conversation. Jashri slowly sat up and hugged his knees, losing himself in reminiscence of simpler times.

* * *

When he woke, he was flat on his back again, one of his knees still bent to point at the sky. Patches of brilliant blue winked between the clouds, the bright, cold blue of a brisk winter day. He gently wiped crusts of sleep from his eyes and turned to look at his companion. Braedal appeared recently woken, stretching and rolling stiff joints. Jashri did the same, the entirety of his long spine cracking satisfyingly into its proper position. A cool wind from the north, the sea, tousled his fur. The briny scent provoked his stomach into complaining softly. Standing to pack away his bedding, he addressed the elf. "Ready to go?"

"You bet." The thinner fur draped once more over the bosmer's bony shoulders. His steps over to the path punched holes in the pristine crust of snow that had accumulated during the night, and he waited on the cleared black stone of the walkway for Jashri to wade over and join him. As they walked, the khajiit swept his gaze over the distant cliffs, searching for breaks that could lead down to the sea. Trees, stones, hills, and snowdrifts frequently blocked his line of sight, and eventually he suggested walking along the cliffside. The journey would be as easy to keep track of as following the path, they would simply have to pay attention to the shoreline instead of the thick ink of the trails. Braedal agreed. Snow hampered progress to the cliffs, but once there the walk along them was easy, the white coating very light due to sea breezes cleansing the cliffs. A few hours' walk away, the sheer cliffs faltered, giving way to a valley or landslide that could allow access down to the shore. Eagerness to get something to eat quickened Jashri's pace, Braedal's speed increasing to match.

What had appeared to be easy access to the sea was a rocky slope dusted with powdery snow and made slick by the spray of the sea, some of the water hardening into small icy patches. The two carefully clambered down the irregular cascade of boulders, each step cautiously placed to avoid a slip. Braedal's agility made it very easy for him to reach the beach first. Perhaps a forest upbringing allowed him to move with ease in dangerous places, whether those places be trees or cliffs. Jashri's movements were far more hesitant.

The base of the cliffs was as windy as the tops, sea air hurling itself against the stone like the waves during a storm and swishing violently upward or back into itself. The extra fur on Jashri's jaws swayed irritatingly in the swirls of air. His head shook instinctively, as if to shake off flies. Wholly useless. In the northern regions, the khajiit ad noticed an absence of flies, as well as many other insects. Chill seaspray reared up to mist his nose, cold as the ice that floated a short distance from the beach. He shivered and felt sorry for Braedal, bare skin no defense against the water's frigid touch, but the bosmer had drawn out his sheet and tied the thin material around his ears and lower face in order to keep off the spray and the cheek-chapping wind. Aside from his hands, most of his skin was well-concealed beneath the new shirt and repaired pants and shoes. He even looked fairly comfortable.

A short distance along the shore sat a fat gray animal with flippered feet and leathery wrinkled skin. Just the view of its back was unlike any creature Jashri had seen before. He quietly tapped Braedal on the shoulder, drawing his attention to the fleshy lump of a creature. Eyes glittering with interest, the bosmer silently drew a knife and crept up to the animal, peering at it with intrigued caution. As the elf neared its tail – or hindquarters, perhaps – the creature grunted warily and turned to look at him with tiny, beady eyes that peeked between the folds of its skin. The face of the beast was even more alien than the body, three tusks protruding between fleshy lips, the ivory slightly yellowed but still pointed and dangerous looking. Perceiving Braedal as a threat, the creature bellowed and flopped toward him, stubby flippery paws pushing it along the rocky beach. The bosmer drew his hand back slightly, and a flick of his wrist sent the knife into the creature's thick hide, provoking angry sounds from it. Jashri had no doubt that it would spare Braedal no mercy if it could catch him. The agile elf hardly needed to try to avoid it, its awkward progress was too slow. Enraged grunts and bellows issued from the beast as it lumbered forward in its vain attempt to destroy its attacker. Braedal's knives hardly seemed to damage it, merely making the creature angrier. Jashri had to admit that although its waddling was comical, its ferocity was certainly not, and the slow but wholehearted charges it made at the elf bordered on frightening. The khajiit sat among the rockslide they had descended, and when the bosmer joined him on the jumbled steps the blubbery creature gave a frustrated growl and lumbered to the water, bringing four of the elf's knives with it into the sea. Braedal gazed dejectedly after it until it disappeared into the rich blue-and-white patchwork of the ocean. "Let's not try those again."

Jashri raised an eyebrow. "Giving up already?"

"It took four of my blades, and I didn't figure out where I had to hit it to kill it. If we had more knives – or more money – I'd keep trying. They sure have a lot of meat."

"What was that thing, anyway?"

"It was what you saw from the cliffs in Winterhold. The locals call them 'horkers.' They seem to be pretty common, like the deer of the sea."

"Looked more fierce than deer."

"Yeah. Deer can be pretty fierce, but they're easy to take down. This thing seemed unstoppable. They can't be too difficult to kill, though, because the inn sold a lot of horker. I probably just didn't find its weak spot."

"So what are we going to eat if we can't get a horker?" Braedal didn't respond, his gaze drifting out across the ocean. His thoughtful expression grew increasingly more frustrated. Waves lapped insistently at the pebbles of the shore, noisily trying to catch Jashri's attention. The sound was familiar, friendly. Memories of warm afternoons bubbled to the front of the khajiit's mind, memories filled with the sweet scents of the trees and flowers of Cyrodiil.

"Braedal, do you have any string left over?"

Braedal's smooth forehead wrinkled as he looked at Jashri with confusion. "Yes, why?"

"We could fish."

The elf dug into a pocket and drew out the remainder of the string, a surprisingly large amount considering how much repair work he had done on their clothing. From another pocket he procured several bits of wire, handing two of them to Jashri along with a length of string. Jashri struggled to bend the bits of metal into suitable fishhooks, ending up with a pair of primitive but serviceable tools. Hooks made, he scrounged the shore for salvageable bits of flotsam and jetsam to garnish his line and perhaps serve as bait. A large and slippery boulder hunched among the smaller rocks of the beach, providing a nice fishing spot with a wide view of the ocean. Jashri scrambled atop, Braedal following moments later with his own makeshift fishing equipment. Settling beside the khajiit, he tried to affix a tiny unidentifiable scrap to his hook as bait. "I don't advise using blood, if you were considering it. All you'd catch is slaughterfish." The thought hadn't crossed Jashri's mind, but he saw reason for Braedal's concern and nodded. The bony carnivorous fish had little edible flesh and tasted quite unpleasant. Baiting his hook with a tiny crustacean caught on the beach, Jashri cast his makeshift line and made himself comfortable to wait for a catch. Braedal did the same moments later, with slightly less success. The bosmer seemed a more experienced hunter than fisherman.

"Not bad. You don't fish often, do you?"

Braedal shrugged. His voice was slightly muffled by the cloth over his mouth and nose. "I learned when I had to, but never really used it much."

"I would think it would be a useful skill."

"You know how it is, Jashri. When you're fleeing the law, you don't exactly have the time to sit down and fish. Hunting is faster, more profitable, and less detectable." He paused thoughtfully, shifting to a more comfortable position atop the rock. "I suppose you don't know. When I met you, you were starving."

"Hadn't eaten in days," he muttered, reluctant to delve any deeper into the circumstances surrounding those unfortunate days. "If hunting is so much better, why did you need to learn to fish?"

Braedal waved off the question. "It was a silly thing, really. A boyish fantasy." Jashri sat patiently, eyes on the bosmer, silently pressing him for more. The elf sighed inwardly. "When I came of age, I wanted to be an explorer. I thought I was destined to visit all the provinces, discover boundless treasure, and sail off into the sunset for distant lands. I worked odd jobs until I had enough money to buy myself a boat. I thought she was a grand ship; she was larger than any of the little boats I had seen where I grew up. She was meant to travel rivers, but of course I didn't know enough about boats to know that." He gave a soft snort, amused but sadly reminiscent. "I called her _Adventure_ , and I had my voyage all planned out. Started to stock up on supplies. That was when I learned to fish, I knew that I might not be able to bring along enough supplies if something happened on the sea and I would need to stay fed somehow. It was all useless, though. Luckily, I was practical enough to take her for a test run a while before I had planned to start my trip. One good wave and she was down. Boats like that aren't made to withstand waves. She was an old riverboat, built for trading on calm rivers deep in the jungle. I sold all I could salvage at the nearest major trade city."

"Do you still want to do that?"

"Do what? Sail?"

"Be an explorer. You're off to a good start. Been in four provinces."

Braedal laughed. "I like exploring, but I think I'll be staying on Tamriel. I'm not going to try sea travel again." The ocean lapped softly at the rock as if to encourage the elf to change his mind.

"So what did you do then? Protest?"

"Not originally. First, I was a performer. A street performer, for tips. I was an excellent juggler, tried my hand at singing, but what I liked most was acting. There were a few other performers in the trade city, and whenever our wanderings happened to meet we would put on skits and whatever short plays we could remember." Braedal was grinning under his cloth, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. They were distant in reminiscence. "It was a while before I discovered the Thalmor, I was told about them through a group of protestors. They convinced me that my acting skill could really help them further the cause, and I definitely support the cause. We were mostly just a nuisance, not much of a threat with the Dominion so rooted in Valenwood. Some of the guys decided that we needed to get serious and show them what we thought of them, so we started to protest in front of their main embassy. The guards shooed us away, but we always came back. Then we vandalized the embassy. Actually, we did more than that; we tried to destroy the embassy. We accomplished exactly what most of us protesters wanted, we made the Thalmor see us as a threat. That was a mistake. You know what happened next. They hunted us down and crushed our resistance with a thumb." Braedal's voice grew softer and more regretful as the finished his story, trailing off and gazing at the icebergs on the horizon. A gentle sigh turned into a weak chuckle. "Look at that, you really got me talking. So, O Fishing Master, why did you learn to fish?"

Jashri blinked, surprised at the return to the original subject, and collected his thoughts. "Recreation, I guess. Lake Rumare is a short walk from my house, and on lazy days it's nice to go down and catch some dinner. I always found it relaxing, a good way to de-stress after days and days of selling things to people. It was nice." The tastes and smells of Cyrodiil brushed lightly against his memory. "Resting on the shore, waiting for a bite. . . it was a lot like this."

"Less cold, I'm sure."

"Yes," Jashri agreed wholeheartedly, "less cold."

"Ocean fish are kind of different from lake fish, you know."

"They're bigger, stronger, and swim further out. That's why it's good to have a high place to sit, so it's easier to cast further."

Braedal nodded. "What did you use as bait?"

"A crab."

"A crab? Where in this frigid wasteland did you find a crab? I had to settle for a fleshy plant!" The conversation dissolved into small talk about fishing, the hours passing swiftly with few bites. Most of the catch were small fish, quickly converted into bait for larger prey. Sunset brought with it more aquatic activity, and soon the famished travelers found themselves with a week's worth of food. The scramble back up the stony incline was more difficult in low light, Jashri's good night vision enabling him to reach the top first in spite of the elf's agility. Branches were snapped from trees and plucked from the snow, a fire was made, and a feast was prepared, impaled on sticks and knives. Jashri peeled pale strips of fish flesh from white bone, analyzing and savoring the taste of a fish he had never before eaten. The still-moist bits slid easily down his throat, the khajiit uncaring how little they had been cooked.

"Skyrim's fish are very strange," he mused, licking the unusual flavor from his fingers.

"How so?"

"They taste different than Cyrodiilic fish. Wilder."

Braedal nodded. "They're as gamy as fish can be. These fish lead a tough life up north. There's not much to eat, and it's eat or be eaten. Makes them taste stronger."

"Hm. I'm tasting a fish's life," the khajiit said thoughtfully, running his tongue along his lips to take in the last of the flavor. "Cyrodiilic fish must have it easy. They're very mild."

The bosmer laughed. "Of course! The Imperial Province is the wealthiest, most luxurious place to live. They're living the dream. It'd be a challenge to find a sweeter fish. There could be a contest, adventurers could quest for mildness."

Finished with his meal, Jashri scraped a light covering of snow from the ground and laid out his furs a short distance from the fire's warmth. Hungrily, Braedal devoured the rest of his food – he must have been distracted by the conversation. Jashri watched the auroras flash into the sky, dancing across the velvet backdrop of night, speckled with sparks of diamond stars. Thin black rivers of sea between floes of ice lit up with stolen beauty, reflecting the flickering colors. Pretty as Skyrim was, Jashri felt the emptiness of the tundra around him echo the emptiness he felt inside.

"Braedal?" He glanced at the elf, now lounging, relaxed, across his own fur with his head cushioned on his hands, black eyes reflecting the sky they gazed into just like the waters of the sea.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever miss Valenwood?"

The sound of waves leaked through the long silence as Braedal stared blankly into the sky, his face an emotionless mask. His chest heaved a soundless sigh and he turned to face the khajiit across the fire, scrutinizing him. "You miss Cyrodiil." Jashri nodded, even though it wasn't a question. The elf laid on his back once more, face to the heavens. "Yeah, I miss it sometimes. Simple things. The animals, the other bosmer, the trees. I know, though, that I would be dead if I had tried to stay there, and being alive makes it worthwhile. The more I think about the great things I've seen since, the less I miss it." When Jashri remained silent, he kept speaking, voice low. "If you can't go back, why worry? Be glad to have had the experience and keep moving forward."

The khajiit let out a soft breath, turning his own face to the sky. "Yes, you're right, of course." Instead of being in jail, he had seen a fallen city, he had nearly gone to Morrowind, he had met a bosmer and fished in the sea. Somehow, the positive thoughts failed to fill the void, and his mind kept meandering back to the dappled Cyrodiilic forests, his dreams wandering along the familiar cobbled roads of home.


	10. 9

Tough as the paint horse was, she tired quickly of the rocky Skyrim roads as they snaked up and down among the hills and mountains. Speed, Ri'kel felt, was too important to rely on the steady, loyal Cyrodiilic steed any longer, and upon encountering a small town he was fully prepared to barter for one of the rugged northern breeds.

The stablemaster was a rugged man, with darker and less hair than most nords the khajiit had seen. The dusty scent of hay lingered on him, and he reeked of horse and the sweaty odor of hard work. A burly physique allowed him to maintain control of even the muscular Skyrim horses with ease. His thick arms folded across a wide chest as he scrutinized Ri'kel and his mare. "What can I do for you, cat?"

"I may be interested in your horses."

"Really now? I don't get that often." Ri'kel was surprised at how easily he could detect the sarcasm in the stablemaster's voice. He often found the races of man very subtle in their manner of speaking; this man's message came across clearly despite his northern accent. "Go ahead, take a look." A quick jerk of the head indicated the stables, several horses penned up inside. Tying the gentle paint to a post, Ri'kel padded to the stalls, one of the horses snorting and stamping a foot at his unfamiliar feline scent. When he reached out a tentative hand to touch it, it shied away, snorting aggressively and laying back its ears. The other beast was more calm, regarding him warily but without hostility. It allowed the khajiit to touch its thick, coarse fur with only slight protest. "Tell me about this one."

The stablemaster swaggered over, patting the horse on the neck, heavily but kindly. "He's young, but well trained. Good endurance. Not particularly fast, but he can power up mountains like they're flat as the plains. He's a great one, no doubt about it."

"And the other?"

"Strongest, fiercest battle horse you'll ever meet. Like a cave bear in horse form. Not flighty in the least, obedient, tough. A perfect warhorse."

Even with the difficulty of understanding the man's words through his accent, Ri'kel could tell the stablemaster was exaggerating. Although he was not particularly good at estimating the value of living creatures, he knew from mercantile experience that whatever price the man asked for his horses would be far higher than their actual worth. "The first is rather satisfying."

"A real beauty, isn't he? Worth at least three thousand gold."

"I am actually looking to trade, not to buy. If I bought your horse, what would I do with mine?"

The nord frowned, turning to inspect the paint horse. Ri'kel took the chance to look carefully at the northern horse, checking for inadequacies he could point out to the stablemaster. He noticed that the Skyrim breed looked much stronger than his Cyrodiilic horse, much stronger than he was used to handling. He hoped it was well-trained, as the owner claimed.

"Your horse isn't nearly as good as mine, so even a trade is going to cost you a bit. I'll take one thousand as part of a fair trade."

"You are ridiculous. I am a merchant, I know a bad deal when I see one. Your horse is worth one thousand gold at most, if I were buying it. What I truly wish to do is to borrow your horse and to give him back when I leave Skyrim. My horse is collateral. For this type of trade it is unreasonable for you to expect payment at all."

"Well, clearly your horse isn't as good as mine, or you wouldn't want to borrow him. Five hundred gold. Take it or leave it."

Ri'kel had not even brought five hundred gold with him, but as much as he disliked haggling, he needed the horse more. "I can not take it, but I can make you a deal. You are a nord, and nords like liquor, yes?"

"Right."

"I can get a bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy imported for you instead."

"Two bottles."

"One bottle and a tankard."

Cyrodiilic Brandy was expensive, and the nord knew it. He was pushing his luck. "Deal. Pleasure doing business with you. When can I expect it?"

"Within a month, most likely."

"'Most likely,' he says. What if it doesn't show?"

"Tell me when I return the horse and I will bring it to you personally."

"And when will that be?"

"That depends on when I find what I am looking for."

"If you're not back in a year, I'm going to sell your horse."

Ri'kel inclined his head. "That is fair. Thank you." The nord's large hand wrapped around the thin leather of the paint horse's reins and he led her to a stall, grumbling about being unable to trust a khajiit. Ri'kel saddled the new horse, which gave a wary snort when the feline drew near but otherwise stayed calm. The horse was taller than he was used to; the casual step of foot into stirrup ended up missing and landing with a jarring thud against the ground. Reaching higher, he was able to catch his foothold and swing his other leg over the horse. Patting the muscular neck before him reassuringly, he directed the horse onto the stone of the road, hooves clicking as they met the rocky path. He tentatively urged it into an easy trot and quickly discovered that his new steed was not road-trained, as his own had been. Each time the road turned, Ri'kel heard the smart click of hooves soften to dull thudding against the soil and felt the jarring of the road smooth as the dirt sunk to pad the horse's steps. Luckily, it responded well to the gentle touch of the rein and was easily directed back to the road. The khajiit could not afford to get lost.

To the northeast; to Windhelm. The browns and greens that smeared the edges of Ri'kel's vision gradually turned to sharp whites and pointed blacks. Earthy smells – the soil, the musk of animals, the mingling perfumes of lightly scented Skyrim flowers flavoring the wind – were swept away by the biting purity of ice and the scentlessness of stone. Ever-present pine still added to the sting of the cold smells, and when the horse strayed from the path and his hooves crunched in shrubs, their spiciness was added to the mix. It was an incense born of eternal winter, one the khajiit's nose was unused to. His breath fogged before him, his nose burned cold when he breathed. Frosted winds nipped his ears, but he was reluctant to draw a hood over them and curtain such a crucial window to the world. Unless it crashed through bushes, he could not smell the horse leaving the path, and the howls of wolves carried no scent. His ears remained cold.

Mountains loomed around the merchant, their dark bodies crowding out sunlight before the hour was late. A river carved its way around the mountains' feet; the trail following. It roared deafeningly over cliffs, slowed to a broad whisper on flat stretches, but always it murmured alongside him on its journey to the sea.

The horse became used to Ri'kel, and Ri'kel became used to the horse. It greeted his scent with welcome and accepted his touch. Navigation was tiring, for the stony road curved often around the toes of cliffs and veered unexpectedly in other directions, but Ri'kel became good at hearing the edges of the road and could direct the horse back on course. There were no idle moments to rest a weary mind, and for that the khajiit was grateful, because his mind was troubled. Thoughts surfaced, the black of Ri'kel's mind darkened by the black of night, whenever it was necessary to stop and rest after a day of travel.

 _What if I do not find him?  
What if I find him and he is dead?  
What if he _is _captured by a slaver?  
If our business fails while we are away?  
If he goes back while I am searching for him?  
If he is not in Skyrim at all?_

Only attentiveness kept his ears from lying flat against his head, and the sounds of the night often kept him tensely awake. Fears bloomed black and receded with the break of dawn and the resumption of the journey. He clung desperately to the scrap of hope that the Imperial guard had given him, its light the beacon towards which he strove.

"No khajiit inside the city." The nord had an accent as thick as the stone walls enclosing Windhelm.

"I need to find someone, please, it is important." Ri'kel had argued with him for nearly twenty minutes with no success; the guard simply would not let him into the city.

"No khajiit. Send in someone else to find him."

"You can not make an exception?"

"No. No khajiit. No one wants you in the city, it's best for your kind to stay out."

"What if I were a slave?"

"We don't have slave markets here in Windhelm, and the residents know the rules. No khajiit in the city. Period. End of story."

"You have never let one in?"

"No one on this guard has. _Ever._ Khajiit stay in caravans outside the cities, that's how it works and how it has always worked. It's peaceful that way. Why do you insist on challenging the rules?"

"You have seen none recently?"

"Only the usual caravans. Get out of my sight, cat, you've wasted enough of my time already."

Ri'kel's heart shriveled to a lump in his chest, cold as the snow that frosted every bit of Windhelm, from the ground, to the bridge, to the helms of the guardsmen. No khajiit in the city. Not a sign of Jashri. The other city Devinn mentioned, Riften, closer to Morrowind and the lawlessness of the forsaken province, was his only other lead. If Riften proved fruitless, what then? He could only hope it did not.

The horse left the stables by the bridge to the city with great reluctance. He had not been in his stall an hour before his rider had returned, leading him to the hard stone of the road and clambering once more atop the broad back. If the Riften guard would let Ri'kel in, the horse would get the long rest it deserved. Until then, it would have to trudge along the mountain roads, stopping only for food and for the dark of night.

White snow receded to tan flatland, a wide, jagged plain filled with scents of water and warmth and the rich sandy smell of the moist volcanic earth. Insects buzzed, whirred, clicked through the air and thrummed irritatingly by Ri'kel's ears; he swatted them away to no avail, for more always came to take their places. When there was no inn to stay the night, the bugs gathered around the camp, attracted by the comforting warmth and mesmerizing flicker of firelight. Though many of the small creatures were annoying, the khajiit welcomed the presence of the luminescent moths and torchbugs. The friendly glow of the slow-moving creatures captured his attention as the more mundane insects could not, and kept his mind from wandering into the darkness of the night until he could be overcome by sleep.

Past the flats, small skeletons of naked trees lifted their arms alongside thick, lush evergreens. Ghosts of familiar smells danced across Ri'kel's memory, but if he tried to catch a better scent they would disappear on the breeze. Grass softened the ground, dull in preparation for the oncoming winter.

The strong odor of fish first alerted the khajiit to the trade city's presence, and he nudged the horse slightly faster in eagerness, hoping that he approached the end of his journey. Water calmly lapped at silty banks and at the wooden feet of the city, flavoring the air with the scent of rich earthy soil and the creak of wooden dock and boat. Age dulled the aroma of waterlogged pine to the merest whiff of wood, a comforting smell. Coupled with the soft swishing of the rippled lake, it almost soothed Ri'kel, but dread and purpose kept familiarity from relaxing him. He stabled the horse with as much haste as possible before making his way to the door, bracing himself for confrontation with the guards.

"Has a khajiit passed into the city recently?"

The guard's armor creaked and scraped as he shrugged nonchalantly. "We wouldn't know. Riften has three doors on land and two on the lake and the shifts change fairly often. Ask around inside."

Ri'kel's tail flicked gently in surprise as the guard casually opened the thick wooden door for him. No questioning? No who, no what, no why? No refusal to let the khajiit inside? He gave a quick nod of thanks as he swept through into the safe ring of the city wall.

A wave of sound rushed up to greet him as he entered the city, the sound of merchants and negotiations, of sellers hawking their wares and buyers bargaining for them. Small fishing boats unloaded below in the canal, the lower tier of the city, heaving nets of silvery fish onto the docks. Ri'kel knew trade cities; trade cities bustled, they churned, the people cared for themselves and for partners and were oblivious to all others. A good place to hide. It was easy to lose oneself among the crowds.

"Please, sir, a coin? A single septim?" A beggar in rags, invisible among the gray-browns of the city. The beggar trembled, smelled strongly of skooma. He hesitated, considered just walking by like all the others, but though he knew his coin would go towards an illegal drug he could feel nothing but pity for the vagrant. He was not conditioned to hate skooma and all its users. Having grown up in Elsweyr, he hardly considered it worthy of being illegal. A gleaming circle of gold dropped from his hand to that of the beggar. "Gods bless you." Ri'kel dipped his head in acknowledgment and continued into the center of town, the market.

Plenty of merchants had mere booths, makeshift stores like the ones crowding the courtyards of the Imperial City. All manner of things traded hands upon these streets. Weapons gleamed beside glittering jewels beside homemade pies beside the skins of exotic animals. Voices called. "Fresh vegetables!" "Strong steel!" "Finest rugs in Skyrim!" "Delicacies from the deserts!" A booth held no items, but a banner draped along it boldly offered travel service to Morrowind for "job-seekers." It was manned by a thin-faced and shifty-eyed dark elf. A logical place to look.

"Greetings, khajiit. Do you seek passage to Morrowind, where a job awaits you, guaranteed? People like you are exactly what are needed, and careers there will last you a lifetime."

"No, I do not," Ri'kel sniffed, repulsed by the man's slick and euphemistic description of a life of servitude. This dunmer was as much a fisherman as the men in the boats below. His hook may have caught many an unfortunate fish. "There is something I do seek, though. Information."

The red eyes smoldered warily in the gaunt elven face, narrowing at Ri'kel's request. "What kind of information?"

"I am looking for someone, and you may have given him transport to Morrowind."

"How much will you pay for such information?"

Ri'kel leaned in closer to the dunmer, letting frustration seep into his body language with laid-back ears and lashing tail. His words hissed quietly through his teeth. "Look, slaver –" the dark face paled – "I wish to ask only a simple question that should require no effort from you and no payment from me. You will only need to tell me 'yes' or 'no'. Will you answer?"

"Yes, yes, fine. But you will speak of this to no one."

"Agreed. Have you recently transported a light-colored khajiit, similar to myself?"

The dunmer scrutinized him for a moment before answering. "No. I've had one recent khajiit customer, and she was a different color, a sort of red."

Ri'kel bottled up his disappointment and gave a short nod. "I believe our business is done."

"Yes. It is." As the khajiit wove away into the busy fabric of the market, he heard the raspy voice resume its calls, the seductive promises of a foreign land that was actually a dangerous trap. His head wagged gently back and forth in disapproval.

Ri'kel wandered to the edge of the market, slipping past sweat-scented fishermen as he headed down creaking stairs to the darker underbelly of the city, the canal. Boats bobbed in the water, reeking of fish and moist rot, groaning ropes tethering them to the docks. The wood was slick beneath his boots, coated with a slimy sheen of fish scale and lake water. Walls of stone loomed on the other side of the wooden walkways, slimy too with mosses and spray. The city above blotted out most light, casting the lower tier into black shadow, into which Ri'kel peered in search of his brother. Instead he found beggars, thieves, street urchins, all manner of dishonest and unsanitary folk mingling with tired fishermen and ordinary citizens, brave and mindful of their safety. Plenty of honest shops were stationed beneath the city, niche and one-of-a-kind stores worth venturing below for. Though he asked, no shop owners had seen any khajiit like Ri'kel.

A tavern, an inn – certainly a place offering food and rooms would attract a fugitive khajiit or well-disguised slave trader. Light dimmed as the sun set, and Ri'kel maneuvered easily through the emptying market to inspect the signs of nearby buildings. Meadery, general goods. . . the third and largest building he checked turned out to be a well-established inn, a burst of warm air greeting him as he pushed the door open. Chatter filled the room so thoroughly that it was a challenge to catch the spirited song plucked from a lute by a bard beside the wall. Burning lamps caused everything in the room to glow the golden of honey. Plates and mugs clinked and clattered as patrons enjoyed meals smelling richly of meats and vegetables grilled to perfection. Ri'kel kept to the perimeter of the room, eventually coming across a bar being swabbed by a bartender.

"Are you in charge-"

"I'm sorry, sir, you're going to have to speak louder," the bartender called, pausing in his cleaning and leaning over the bar to listen more closely.

"Are you in charge here?" Ri'kel was accustomed to being fairly quiet, the attempt to be heard felt unnatural and he wished the rest of the room would quiet down a bit.

"In charge? You could say that. What can I do for you?"

"Do you remember very well who comes through here? I am looking for someone."

The bartender's shoulders rolled in a shrug. "I can't say I remember everyone, but I'll do what I can."

"Have any other khajiit come through recently?"

"A few, I'm sure. Not many, but a few." Ri'kel's heart leapt excitedly, tail flicked behind him.

"Light-colored ones?" he asked, hardly daring to hope, "Similar to myself?"

The barman was quiet for a moment, looking him up and down and giving a short nod. "Depends how similar you mean. We had a couple of light ones through here a week or so ago. Probably with a caravan." He shrugged again. "I don't remember much else about them, you can talk to the waitress and see if she knows any more."

"Thank you," purred Ri'kel, unable to stop hope from boiling up inside him despite efforts to remain calm. It was not difficult to find the waitress, who visited the cookfire often and bustled back off into the throng of customers, hands full of plates heaping with roasted meats and bowls steaming with hearty stews. Even through the excitement, the feelings of guarded joy and intense curiosity, his stomach managed to whimper a weak call for attention to draw Ri'kel's mind to baser concerns. The sizzling foods set his mouth to watering, and the comfort of warmth drew out a million minor aches. He turned back to the bartender, fully aware that the waitress would not stop her work to answer a traveler's silly questions. "Sir?"

"What else can I do for you, khajiit?"

"Are there any rooms available?"

"Yes there are, they're ten gold per night per room." Ri'kel slipped his coins onto the counter and was rewarded with a small brass key, a friendly smile, and the instruction, "It's up the stairs, second door from the right."

"Thank you." The key slid into a pocket. "I would also like to order some food. Do you have fish?"

The man behind the counter laughed. "This is Riften, of course we have fish! I recommend the salmon; it's a common fish, but the local salmon are the best in Skyrim."

"Right, I will have that, then." Several more coins dropped into the hand of the barman, who gave Ri'kel a kindly nod.

"Go ahead and have a seat, it'll be brought to you." The khajiit gladly did so, settling down at a small table near the counter. Another chair sat vacant across the table, its empty presence reminding Ri'kel of many evenings overhearing the news, sitting comfortably in Cyrodiil with his brother by his side and only the worries of the business world on his shoulders. Soon, he reminded himself, he would have Jashri back and could once again eavesdrop in his familiar home tavern. He shifted in his seat – not comfortable. He was saddle-sore and even the light travel had burned off the layer of padding that once cushioned his bones. His rear dug uncomfortably into the wood of the chair. Shrugging off his cloak – he had forgotten to remove it when he entered the building – he tucked it under himself as a cushion, the warmth of the room making up for the loss of the coat's.

The waitress drew near, sliding Ri'kel's fish onto the table with a kind bob of her head. "Enjoy." She turned as if to move back towards the cookfire.

"Ah, excuse me, do you have a moment? I have a question."

She glanced towards the fire; whatever the next meal was must not have been ready, for she remained to hear what he had to say.

"The man at the counter told me of other light-colored khajiit that passed through within the past weeks. Do you remember anything more about them?"

"The only light-colored khajiit we've had here recently were a couple of girls looking to join a caravan. They seemed kind, but their accents were very thick. Stronger than yours. They left after two nights."

Ri'kel did not trust himself to speak; he handed the waitress several coins and she thanked him before hurrying off to the cookfire. The warm buoyancy of his hope rushed out through the holes that the waitress's information had punctured in his heart, leaving him deflated, empty, numb. Salmon drifted errantly around the plate, propelled by a fork that had stationed itself between his fingers. The ravenous appetite that, moments ago, made his mouth water and his stomach whine, crumbled to dust that left his mouth dry as the sands of Elsweyr. Richly colored meat and bright vegetables blurred, mushed together as moisture clouded his eyes. As his mind drifted into thoughts, he saw nothing. Tasteless food rose mechanically to his mouth, legs drew him mindlessly to his room, the door thudded shut behind him, and a plain bed served as a seat. Ri'kel's hands rose to cover his face. The cheeks were damp with his frustration.

The cover of his hands blacked his vision and his pointed elbows dug into bony knees. Ears drooped limply against his head, the tiny muscles drained of strength to lift them up. Lips trembled with the restraint to pull them back.

 _I've failed._

Droplets rolled from the corners of the yellow-green eyes, swept away with a swipe of fingers.

 _He is not here. He is supposed to be here. I looked everywhere – nothing. No one has seen him. Gone._

 _Gone where? Not here. This is it, the only place he could be. The guard, Devinn, said he was headed here. Where? I looked. Not among the beggars, not on the docks, not in the shops, not in the inn. The elf did not take him to Morrowind. Not Windhelm, either, they would not have let him in. Where, then? The wilderness? How could I ever find him there?_ Unpleasant scenarios pounced upon the darkness of Ri'kel's mind. Visions of slavery, of death, smells of blood and rot, sounds he wished never to hear left him shivering even in the warmth of the inn.

 _Anything that happens to him is my fault. Jashri, my brother. I did not mean to scare you away._ One hand wiped at his eyes, slipped down to his neck, fingertips brushing the cool metal of a chain, the ever-present amulet that hung around his neck. _Is this a test? A test from the divines? I know that what I did was wrong. I am working hard to fix it – is it not enough? I have gone many miles, to a land with strange smells and accents and cities that do not want me. All I worked for in Cyrodiil may be lost, and now the brother I have been working so hard to find may be lost as well. Have I not done well enough to find him? What more do you want from me? What else? I have nothing left to follow._

Ri'kel's hand clasped the pendant until it dug into his skin, he relaxed his grip and ran his fingers along the familiar swirls, the smooth face of the anvil. _A place, a clue. The slightest hint, that is all I need, and I will travel through the fires of Oblivion to find him._ The steel was cool on his palm, the ridge of engraved metal soft on the finger that traced it. _I need to find a temple._


	11. 10

Dawnstar marched by and Jashri and Braedal returned to the roads, coated thickly with frost due to the season. As tree cover returned and more shrubs tangled beside the path, the travelers were glad they had done so. It was much easier to walk on such a clear trail. Unfortunately, the well-traveledness of the path and the winter chill kept wary wildlife far away within the more southerly plains or westerly marshes – relatively warmer climes – leaving the alpine area a snow-dusted wasteland.

Braedal's expression was strangely dissatisfied, a mood that Jashri currently couldn't identify with. Cold as it was, the air was fresh and clear, responsibility and fear had largely lifted from the khajiit's shoulders, and ahead, behind, all around was freedom. A knife twirled between the elf's fretful fingers until he tucked it back away, only to absently draw out another moments later and fidget anew. "Problem, Braedal?"

"Just a little disappointed, is all. I was looking forward to hunting here, and we're out of leftover fish. I wish some animals would show up. It's sort of strange, you know, not to be surrounded by animals. I'd only been in warmer regions until we came here. Southern Skyrim wasn't too bad, and the shore had those horkers, but it's pretty deserted out here."

"I'm sure there are plenty of animals in the spring and summer."

"That won't help us much now that it's winter." The knife Braedal had been toying with slipped back into hiding and the elf tucked his hands into his pockets. "We will have to eat soon, you know. It's been two days, and we can't just starve. I've gotta admit, I'm surprised you do so well without eating. You're made of tough stuff, city cat." A smirk played on the bosmer's lips, his eyes twinkling with amusement despite his talk of the seriousness of the situation. Jashri shrugged. "You know how mountain lions – and sabre cats, I guess – eat one big meal and then go without food for days? I guess khajiit are kind of like that, too."

"Lucky you," Braedal chuckled, "I'm just a weak little bosmer. Three days is my limit."

"Well, we should be near Morthal soon, if we need to, we can buy something there." The corners of the elf's mouth flattened slightly, straightening into an unhappy line.

"We should avoid that if we can. We might need that gold, and there isn't much left."

"It wouldn't be much. A few septims for a cheap meal to keep you on your feet until we could catch more. And if we head south, we'll find enough animals that we won't need the gold for food."

"I sort of wanted to go to Solitude, actually. We could end up needing the money."

"Solitude?" Jashri's ears flicked with puzzled curiosity, his eyes leaving the path to rest on the bosmer's face. "Why Solitude?"

"I've heard there are a lot of bards there, performers. I think it'll be fun. Maybe we could find some jobs there, earn back all the coin we've burned." The black tilted eyes focused on something that did not exist on Mundus, distant thoughts concealed in their glinting darkness. A gentle smile lifted the corners of the wide lips. "I liked being an actor. Just imagine! You know, you wouldn't be half bad, either. You're convincing, that store owner back in Winterhold knows that. And those guards, when we came in, they believed you just as much as they believed me."

Becoming an actor really didn't seem a bad idea. Jashri knew he was skilled at convincing people; he was a salesman. A new job, coin in his pocket. Perhaps a new life for a fugitive existed in this foreign land. "That's actually not a bad idea, Braedal."

"Doesn't solve our food problem, though."

"No, it doesn't. I'm sure we'll figure something out soon enough."

The bosmer nodded optimistically. Braedal was a survivor, Jashri knew that he was most likely to come up with a solution. Months – years? – fleeing his homeland's altmer invaders made the elf resourceful. If anyone could stir up some game, it was Braedal.

Another knife danced between brown bosmeri fingers as the sun sank below the trees. No animals, no food, just heightened worry. An occasional small sound emanated from the elf's stomach. A few golden-orange rays winked on the crest of a hill, silhouetting a small structure nestled between several trees. The tiny blade ceased its flipping in Braedal's hand as he turned to Jashri, orange motes glowing in his reflective eyes from the setting sun. "Jashri, do you see that?"

"Yes." The khajiit's ears pricked with curiosity. "I wonder what it is."

"I think I know what it is." The knife vanished into a pocket. "Only one way to find out." He strode quickly along the path, turning onto a barely perceivable frosted trail that wound erratically up the hillside, Jashri hurrying after. A mixture of scents, familiar and strange, drifted from the structure. It appeared to be a little wooden hut, a snug patchwork arrangement of split logs thick and thin. Beside it squatted a similarly makeshift table. Before it, a ring of stones patiently awaited the warmth of a campfire, a rust-scaled iron cooking spit straddling the small firepit. A tanning rack gaped empty, several discarded scraps of hide littering the ground nearby. Through the frame of the rack, a splash of color caught the khajiit's eye. A bounty of plump red snowberries flourished in the shelter of a clump of trees, protected from the harsh Skyrim weather by hardy trunks. Jashri was pleased. Not only had they found a safe-looking, welcoming campsite, the berries would be enough to keep them sated until they could reach an area with more plentiful game. He broke one from the stem, crushing it between his teeth. It was tart but juicy, and plenty palatable enough to eat. Gathering in his arms the many clusters of berries he twisted from their stems, Jashri stepped back through the brush into the clearing in high spirits.

Braedal loitered by the shack's ramshackle wooden door, inspecting it and the walls intently. He didn't seem merely curious, he looked as if he were searching for something. Leaning gently against the door, he turned the handle slowly back and forth, wiggling it a bit. Jashri was curious; hadn't the bosmer seen a door handle before? Perhaps this one was unusual in some way. He wanted to ask, but Braedal seemed very focused on whatever he was doing. The delicate slanted brows nearly met beneath a furrowed forehead, usually wide eyes were narrowed and dark, normally playful mouth drawn thin into a line of concentration.

A cold breeze suddenly pierced Jashri's fur and he shivered, turning to attend to his new need. There had been a bit of brush and several branches near the snowberry bush that seemed promising fuel for a campfire, so he trudged back over to gather them. The wood was fairly dry, only the edges of the most exposed pieces too damp to light. He had carefully and deliberately arranged his materials in the stone-circled firepit and was about to light them with a few well-placed sparks when he realized he hadn't seen Braedal in a while. Tail flicking in concern, Jashri glanced around and noticed the door to the building ajar, the interior dark in the evening light. Dropping his materials on the ground beside the waiting husk of the campfire, he padded over to investigate, curious. Just as he was about to peer in, the bosmer walked out, the lift of the smile on his face suggesting satisfaction and faint pride. "Jashri, this is a hunters' rest, as I'd expected all along."

"A hunters' rest?"

Braedal nodded. "With the weather here, hunters never know when they'll need a solid place to live, so they build things like this. It's a good idea. Sturdy buildings can protect them from storms. Hunters in warmer provinces can just set up camps without having to worry about cold and snow. This place even has beds in it, though they're a bit less comfortable than the ground."

"Ground it is, then. I was just about to start a campfire, you might want to set down your fur." The elf shut the door of the hunters' rest behind him and flopped down the fur beside the firepit before rearranging several of the sticks and lighting the campfire himself. Jashri unrolled his own bedding and settled cross-legged onto it, helping goad the little flame to flaring into life. The khajiit was about to bring up his own findings when the bosmer spoke.

"There's some food inside the building."

"The hunters'?" Braedal nodded. "Braedal, we can't eat that, it belongs to whoever owns this place! We'd need to have something to pay them. We don't need it, anyway. I found a bunch of snowberries." Jashri gently lifted a handful of the plump red fruits and offered them to the bosmer, but Braedal shook his head in refusal.

"I can't eat those, I'm bosmer."

"Snowberries aren't poisonous to any race."

"No, that's not it. My god forbids it. I'm guessing you don't know much about bosmer religion, then? We made a pact with Y'ffre, promised not to harm the plants. All of our tools are made from animals or things that aren't alive."

"You didn't harm the berries, I did. Your eating them won't cause them any more harm."

"Eating plants isn't allowed, ever. I suppose we're allowed to hurt the plants outside of Valenwood anyway, except for trees. Haven't you noticed I never break branches from them, like you do, when we make fires?"

"You can't prevent yourself from starving and then ask forgiveness?"

"No. Especially not when I have another option."

"Braedal, that's theft. Stealing is illegal, you can't just take things from the hunters, and I don't want to end up running for my life again if someone finds out."

"The only people here are me and you, and I'm not telling anyone. Who needs it more, a pair of travelers who haven't eaten in days or a fruitful hunter who will simply take it to a market somewhere for a few septims?" Braedal snapped, folding his arms. His eyes flickered with belligerence.

"It isn't ours, and the hunters have it stored away here for a reason. They worked hard for that food, and you just want to walk in and take it." Jashri found his voice rising as he argued, his tail lashing behind him, sweeping smooth swaths of snow.

"We worked hard to find food and found nothing! Nothing, until we found this place. I'm small, I only need a little bit. They won't miss it, they probably won't even notice."

"Just – just drop it. Take some berries, Braedal."

"I am _not_ breaking the Pact. I've stolen before and I'll steal again, and you aren't going to stop me." The elf slipped away into the hunters' rest, the door shutting loudly behind him. Jashri surged to his feet, his hands balling into fists, one extended claw jabbing into his palm. The prick of pain made him pause, heart racing, and drop heavily back onto the ground. He didn't support theft, but he definitely didn't want to fight. Even if he had wanted to, Braedal was more than a match for him, skilled at survival and bristling with knives. He was a hunter. He had killed a bear, a bear that the combined efforts of two bosmer couldn't control. The khajiit curled his tail around his folded legs and mindlessly popped snowberries into his mouth, dwelling sorely on the argument. Braedal really was a criminal; Jashri, a victim of an accident. He had been warming up to the bosmer, slowly, his trust still on shaky footing, painstakingly trying to stand. When the elf pulled something like this, it shoved that feeble trust facedown onto the floor once more. He growled softly, but made no move to get involved. As much as he despised thievery, if Braedal made the choice to steal, Jashri would not interfere. He would have no part in it at all. Berries depleted, he curled up on his furs and let the familiar flickering of the campfire lull him to sleep.

Upon waking, Jashri found a pair of dark eyes gazing at him from across the extinct firepit. Braedal leaned back on his hands, his pointed chin nearly touching his chest, shoulders propped up to brush the bases of his ears. No spark danced in the black eyes, not touch of amusement played on the wide mouth. In fact, the energetic bosmer looked almost tired. Noticing the khajiit's wakefulness, Braedal softly cleared his throat. "You hate me again, don't you." The voice was gentle, weary. It was not a question. A long sigh escaped through Braedal's nose. He had a smudge of darkness under either eye. "And I thought we were making so much progress. I thought I had a friend again, at long last. Don't you understand, Jashri? It was the only thing I could do."

He paused, and Jashri had finally become wakeful enough to respond to the sudden encounter. His voice was deep and rough with sleep. "I don't hate you. I didn't stop you. I just disapprove." Eyes watered as he held back a yawn to see Braedal's reaction. The corners of the elf's eyes and mouth softened – they had been tense with unhappy resignation – and the thin brows lifted with surprise. Satisfied, Jashri loosed his yawn, giving the bosmer a chance to collect his thoughts. He no longer leaned back on his hands, instead folding them in his lap, his legs crossing beneath him. "You 'disapprove.'"

"But I have no choice but to accept it. Your religion discourages eating plants, mine discourages stealing."

"Forbids, actually, not just discourages. I can't eat plants. You never struck me as religious."

"I'm not, but I may have picked up a little bit from my brother. You don't seem very religious, either."

Braedal shrugged. "Bosmer are a little different. We have an agreement with a god, binding us to certain rules and traditions. It's very important to follow them, even if they do sometimes make life inconvenient. Every bosmer knows, and it doesn't matter how often we worship or how much we care about religion, every true bosmer follows the laws. Your gods are a bit more disconnected from this world."

Jashri nodded silently in reluctant acceptance and searched his mind for another, less weighty subject. "You left your fur out here last night, what did you sleep on?"

"I borrowed one of the cots in the cabin; it was uncomfortable, but at least it stayed fairly warm in there without a fur or a fire. I'm actually not sure if the beds are uncomfortable or if I'm just not used to them. Either way, you probably got a better night's sleep than I did."

"I thought so, you look exhausted."

"Yeah," muttered Braedal, his tone tinged with subtle guardedness. He fished in a pocket and drew out his tattered map of Tamriel, taking a moment to find their location in the webs of scrawly trails. "So, are you still okay with going to Solitude?"

"Of course. It's a good idea." Braedal's lips spread in a warm, relieved smile, his tired eyes dancing once more with their usual enthusiastic spark.

"Excellent. We ought to stay on the main path, then. We're right here." Jashri had edged around the cold ashes of the firepit to have a good look at the map, and at his approach Braedal welcomingly turned the map in his direction so he could better see, pointing out their location with a slim tan finger. "The main path will easily bring us right to Solitude. All we have to do is follow the road signs, we won't even need to check the map. I will anyway, of course. The only good way across this river here is over this bridge –" the elf gently tapped a small settlement drawn right atop the lines indicating the river "– unless we headed south, which wouldn't be very smart, look how far we'd have to go and how much would get in the way."

"Now that it's winter, even southern Skyrim wouldn't be nice. It's best to get to Solitude as quickly as possible," agreed Jashri.

"Exactly. Look, this path will take us through the marsh, there's bound to be some game there. We shouldn't have any more trouble." Braedal's gaze traveled from the map to Jashri.

"Good, that'll save us from having to buy anything on the way to Solitude."

The bosmer's black eyes dropped down, followed their path once more in silence. Then he folded the map and replaced it in one of his myriad pockets. "We should probably be on our way, then. The more distance we cover, the better!" He stood, fishing his fur from the snow and stringing it across his back – he had, with the last of the string, added a strap to his bedding so he could more conveniently carry it – and dusted the snow from his clothes. The khajiit stood more slowly, gathering his own things. His legs no longer stiffened after the long days of travel, his muscles powerful and lean from the constant walking. Still, he was relieved to know that he would soon be relaxing in Solitude, seeking only work, purpose, and peace of mind.


	12. 11

Ri'kel blinked rapidly as his weak eyes adjusted to the wan light within the temple. The thick wooden door behind him shut out the clamor and raucousness of the market, cutting off both light and sound. A multitude of candles warmed the air and lit the room in flickering, wavering patterns of light and shadow, perfuming the temple with a waxy scent that mingled with the light, dry sweetness of tiny Skyrim flowers. A soft hint of warm dustiness – books – nearly succumbed to the strong flavor of food being cooked in another room, a spoon clinking on the rim of a pot.

"Welcome, child." The priest's soft-shod footsteps padded toward Ri'kel. He seemed to simply appear from the thick, warm air, his muted red-and-gold robes blended so well with the dim shadow and gentle candlelight that Ri'kel did not see him until he was nearly an arm's length away. Ri'kel gave a kindly nod before stepping quietly forward between the pews, moving to get a close enough look at the idol of the temple's divine to identify the deity. In the warm candlelight, the gilded statue glowed soft and dim. Long, flowing clothes; shapely, motherly body. The goddess's face carefully sculpted into a tender, kindly expression. "Mara." The name left Ri'kel's mouth in a gentle breath, swaying the light of a nearby candle. His head bowed in respectful reverence, his lips moved a brief and silent prayer. Though not his chief deity, not the one he sought, Mara deserved some of his worship, as did all of the other divines. All were important; Ri'kel gave due reverence. Straightening, he sought the welcoming priest, squinting around the room in hopes of noticing some anomaly that could indicate the presence of the priest.

"Blessings of Mara upon you," came the friendly voice from one of the pews. Several steps in the direction of the voice resolved a pattern of light and shadow into the robes of the priest, settled on one of the hard benches facing the statue of the goddess. "Thank you," rasped Ri'kel, his voice roughened by the previous night's emotion and his near-silence ever since. He carefully tried to clear his throat in the least rude manner possible, wary of disturbing the quiet sanctity of the temple. A cough echoing from another room proved his caution unnecessary. "Do you think you could help me with something?" The words flowed more easily.

"Mara's love extends to all in need."

"Are there other temples like this in Skyrim? Temples to other gods, I mean. Do you know of any?"

"I know of all the temples in Skyrim, and many in other regions; what specifically do you seek?"

"I wish to find a temple of Zenithar, my patron god. I find myself in a trying time and look to seek his guidance." A hand raised to Ri'kel's neck, his fingertips lightly brushing the pendant's chain.

The priest moved; Ri'kel stepped forward several more paces to better see and realized that the man was sadly shaking his head. "There are no temples to Zenithar here in Skyrim, he doesn't seem a very popular god among nords. I only know of one temple to the god of commerce, and it is in the furthest reaches of Cyrodiil." The khajiit nodded grimly; he knew the place, had worshipped there before, often stopped by during his travels to Elsweyr. Such a long journey, backtracking through all of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, did not appeal to Ri'kel at all. The priest continued, his indistinct features resolving into a look resembling concern, and the khajiit realized he had let his disappointment show. "If it works for you, though, there is a temple in northern Skyrim made for worship of all the divines. It is a truly magnificent place, but if it will not suit your needs I'm afraid you will have to go to Cyrodiil."

"Where is this temple for all divines?" If Zenithar thought Ri'kel's work unsatisfactory, perhaps another of the divines would notice his plight and be willing to grant him aid. The priest stood, gathered a sheet of parchment from atop a bookshelf, and returned to the khajiit. Inked boldly on the page was a simple map of Skyrim, small blotches denoting major cities and thin lines plotting the well-traveled main roads. "The Temple of the Divines is up here in Solitude, all the way to the northwest. Right now you are in Riften – that's this one, all the way down in the southeast. It is a long journey, but not as long as to the Temple of Zenithar." Ri'kel nodded. He had no choice but to go to a temple, his last hope of locating Jashri.

The priest slipped the tiny map into one of Ri'kel's hands, taking the other in his own and giving it a friendly shake. "Blessings of Mara upon you. May your journey be swift and safe, and may you find within the temple the guidance you seek." The priest padded to another room, his robes melding with the golden candlelight and the soft red shadows, leaving Ri'kel speechless and grateful for the kindness shown to him. Undeniably, the man had adopted the doctrines of love and selflessness valued by the goddess Mara. He looked down at the scrap of parchment in his hand., the tiny roads scrawling between the cities. Once again, and in desperation, he had a tiny glowing spark of hope to light his way.

A wave of sound washed over the khajiit as he pushed open the door of the quiet temple and stepped back onto the sunlit streets of Riften. Even the weak winter light had Ri'kel squinting ineffectively after the warm darkness of the temple. Though the sun had not yet reached its zenith, the markets roared with life, the decks below busy with the calls of fishermen and the wet slap of fish on wooden plank. He skirted the market, passed through the residential streets, tripping occasionally on uneven cobbles, and eventually, finally, slipped through the great wooden gates of Riften. A chill breeze, welcome after the stifling stagnant city air, wafted away the warm clouds of the khajiit's breath. Thick doors swung shut behind him to muffle the noises of the market, the frantic game of merchant and buyer, replacing them with the calm iciness of Skyrim wilds.

In the nearby stable snorted the powerful borrowed horse, greeting the once-foreign feline scent with eager welcome. Ri'kel stroked the soft nose, pleased that the horse was just as willing as he to set off once more. His few supplies strapped once more upon the creature's back, he swung over a leg with practiced ease and settled carefully into the saddle. Muscles protested after the days of rest, but, ignoring them, Ri'kel urged the horse onto the road and away from Riften.


	13. 12

The going grew easier as the duo of travelers headed west, the snow coating the trail growing lighter and less of a hindrance. In the marshes of Morthal, mudcrabs abounded, and despite the cold of winter even the occasional deer bounded by. Both khajiit and bosmer had eaten plenty of crab, but not until the marshes did Jashri appreciate the resilience of the common creatures. As a hobbyist fisherman, he had always gone after more exciting game; the salmon, the spadetail, the slaugherfish, never anything so dull and common as the lowly mudcrab. Hunting them showed how extraordinary the plentiful crustaceans could be. The hard carapace repelled most dagger strikes to the backs of the creatures, and the claws could deliver a nasty pinch, as Jashri discovered when his tail drew a bit too close to what he had passed off as a mere rock. Braedal already knew how to do in the initially impenetrable creatures. Their heavy protective shells were also their downfall, and a single swipe to a flimsy leg could easily take one down. The end of each day in the marsh presented the pair with a veritable feast of mudcrab, occasionally supplemented with small fish. Jashri was quite glad to discover a variety of herbs, nourished by the water and the soft earth. Braedal responded to his use of these with nothing but a blind eye, as he had done all along. For some reason, the khajiit expected him to mention, to point out, to feel provoked – but that would be illogical. Until the hunters' rest, Braedal had kept his beliefs to himself, it was foolish to assume that, all of a sudden, his behavior would change.

Marsh melded to wood, yielded to river and a magnificent bridge. Old stone, worn by weather and footstep, constructed the entirety of the ancient overpass. Despite its antiquity, the bridge held up well, tough and sturdy, and any fear of collapse evaporated upon contact with the smooth cobbles. It was just like walking the same road they had trodden for days, weeks; if it weren't for the glittering river roaring through the gorge beneath them, Jashri would never have imagined he wasn't walking on solid earth. They paused only briefly in the small cluster of homes at the end of the Dragon Bridge, not bothering to spend the night or buy a meal. Many hours of light remained in the day, and Solitude neared.

The river's roars filled the khajiit's ears for the remainder of the journey, for the path ran just beside it. Though hills and boulders often obscured it from the viewpoint of the road, the sound traveled easily past the obstacles. Trees and plants abounded, though what color they may have had remained hidden due to the season. With winter in full swing, the weather was unkind; not as fierce as in the northernmost regions of the tundra of Winterhold, but storms and snowfall proved a nuisance even in the milder west. Snow was wetter, rainier here, and moisture sometimes made it through even the hardy Skyrim clothing to chill the travelers. It was with excitement and relief that they greeted the distant sounds of ship bells on the Solitude docks, obscured from the eye by thick sea fog.

The path grew smoother, clearer of snow, and better maintained as the travelers neared the city. The rush of river gave way to the soft whisper of waves on Solitude's cliffs, and the clarion bells of ships grew more distinct. A tiny farm crouched beside a fork in the path, and Braedal led Jashri up the left fork, away from the small settlement. A guard tower reared up before them, stony and imposing, and up the hill a short distance rose the walls of Solitude.

It was a far grander city than Jashri had expected. Winterhold had been a small town, a city in decline, but the khajiit had taken from it the impression that Skyrim cities were simply not the same as Cyrodiilic cities. The glimpses of Morthal did nothing to dispel that impression, made of wooden structures clustered in the marsh. Solitude was everything the small cities were not. Grand walls rose around it in typical city style, shutting out wild and unwelcome creatures and protecting residents against invaders. It perched boldly on a hill, a long stretch of settlement suspended across a great arch of cliff, many stories over the crashing sea. Jashri liked it before he even set foot inside.

Alert guards beside the city gates raked them over with their eyes and allowed them passage into the spacious streets lines with shops and bustling with people. Merchants shouted beside the doors to stores, ushering in prospective customers and cheerfully praising their products. Jashri gave them all friendly nods and waves. Kindred souls. He understood them. He could do that – he _would_ do that – if it would bring in more business, more people to share goods with. Several of the salesmen grinned and waved back as he strolled by.

Stairs wound along walls and up the sides of buildings, allowing access to the many levels of the city. Somewhere above the marketplace, a forge belched smoke into the sky. Braedal urged Jashri along. The bosmer drank in the sights, but he was not as enchanted by them as the khajiit. He wasn't here just for sightseeing. They slipped out of the main marketplace, passed a smaller market made entirely of wooden stands, and moved on into a residential area. Jashri hardly paid attention to the ivy-coated homes standing tall around him, his mind still snared by the energy of the marketplace and the cluster of makeshift shops in the passage to the neighborhood. The bustle of traders and customers comforted in its familiarity, the thick surrounding walls offered security, the tiny stalls flowed with extra trade. If it weren't for the nip in the air, the gray of the walls, and the accent of the voices, Jashri could almost believe he was back in the Imperial City. His heart was heavy in his chest for no reason he could identify. This place felt safe, familiar, friendly, comfortable. Perfect for starting anew. But yet. . .

"I think that's it, up ahead," Braedal piped, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand and pointing excitedly with the other. Brightly clothed men and women hurried in and out of a building slightly larger than the grand houses surrounding it, talking and laughing in a wide, open courtyard just beyond the door. The laughter was musical, the talk playful, and many words were accompanied with performers' gestures. "Yes, Braedal, I think you're right."

Excitement speeding his step, the elf led Jashri past the throng to the building's doors, doors thrown wide to allow the passage of a constant stream of enthusiastic people. Beside the doors stood a thickly mustached man, occasionally muttering orders to the flow from a scroll so long it nearly brushed the ground. "Excuse me, sir?" Braedal's voice was loud in order to carry over the courtyard's chatter. The man glanced up at the travelers and backtracked a short distance up his scroll. "Are either of you called Wolfreid?"

"Um, no."

"I didn't think so, it doesn't seem like a name fit for either of you. This Wolfreid fellow had better show up soon or he'll be on the cleanup crew," the mustached man grumbled. "Anyway, how can I help you two?"

"This is the Bards College, right?"

"You, sir, are in the right place! – Barty, set that barrel along the west wall with the others, won't you? – Are you a bard?" Jashri had to step back to allow a small blond boy rolling a barrel to pass.

"Not yet. We're seeking training."

"Well, this is certainly where you want to be. Go ahead inside, someone will speak with you in there."

"Thank you, sir." Getting inside was easier said than done. Breaks in traffic lasted long enough to tempt the two into wanting to enter, but not long enough to actually do so. Eventually Jashri slipped in behind an entering bard, Braedal shortly behind him, and went in as the outgoing traffic paused long enough to allow their fellow bard to pass.

The inside of the building was only slightly quieter than the courtyard, bards sweeping through the room in every direction. "You're new?" a nordic girl called to them from across the room, her arms laden with musical instruments. "You'll want to go in that room." A jerk of her head indicated the way they should go, and Braedal held up a hand in thanks before pulling Jashri into the room with him.

Few people roamed the new room in comparison with the entry hall, it was positively peaceful. Every surface seemed to hold a book; stacks of them piled on the tables, lined up neatly on the shelves, scattered over furniture. Gilt lettering glittered dustily from the stately spines of tomes. Several small desks squatted in corners, beside shelves, laden with quills and ink and haphazardly stacked papers and scrolls. A library, or a reading room. Ri'kel would like this room, filled with stories and scented with dust.

"I wonder what all the commotion is about," Braedal's hushed voice mused. It seemed fitting to speak quietly in the much more subdued room. He plopped down onto a backless wooden bench, Jashri settling down beside him. "There's no way they could be this busy every day."

"I'm sure we'll know soon, but right now I think they're too busy to talk to us." Several minutes passed before a breathless gray-haired bared entered the room, pausing and glancing about for a moment before noticing the pair of travelers and approaching them, extending a hand to each in turn and giving each a welcoming handshake. "Hello, hello. Welcome to the Bards College, my apologies for the delay, an apprentice happened to knock over a few ceramics and I was busy helping him clean them up. I'm sure you've noticed how terribly busy we are at the moment. You two wish to learn to entertain, yes?"

Jashri responded, "yes," Braedal nodded vigorously beside him, too overcome with enthusiasm to speak. This was it; the start of a new life, no more worry about where the next meal would come from, no running, few chilly nights sleeping in the woods. He would sing, play an instrument, and, most importantly, act. Paid to enjoy himself! Beside him, a wide white grin split Braedal's brown face. How long had the bosmer dreamed of becoming a bard?

"Right now, we're too busy to officially take you in for training. You are, however, quite welcome to stay here until things have calmed down enough again." The gray-haired bard smiled apologetically down at them where they sat upon the bench. "We will, of course, be quite glad to have you as soon as we can."

"Sir, what exactly _is_ going on here?" Braedal had found his voice, but he spoke quickly, perhaps too excited to speak at a normal pace.

"Ah, you are foreigners, aren't you? Of course!" The old bard dramatically slapped his palm flat against his forehead. "This time of year, we bards hold the Burning of King Olaf festival. Have either of you ever heard of it?" At their silence, he continued. "You'll understand by the end of the festival, I'm sure. We burn an effigy to the powerful and terrible King Olaf One-Eye. It's a historical ceremony of sorts. There is plenty of food and drink, and bards from all over Tamriel return to take part in the festivities." There was a muffled crash from just beyond the door and the old man frowned, hurrying to attend to the problem as shouts began to sound in the other room. "My apologies," he called over his shoulder, taking great strides to the doorway, "I tarried a bit too long, and we _are_ very busy! Feel free to make yourselves at home, claim some empty beds, but take care not to get in the way, please!" And with that, he was gone. The shouting voices beyond the door quieted to murmurs and whispers, and it wasn't long before the level of background noise dwindled to its previous level.

"Can you believe our luck?" Braedal's eyes were bright with excitement. "If we were even a day later, we could have missed the celebration! It's been a very long time since I last enjoyed a festival. I wonder how different Skyrim festivals are from Valenwood ones."

The atmosphere of the room prevented Jashri from feeling the elf's bubbly enthusiasm. Row upon row of dusty, stately books brought thoughts of his brother to mind, thoughts of the life he was leaving behind him. The stuffy room felt too small, confining, especially after so many days outdoors. He muttered a halfhearted agreement; the elf was too excited to notice even the words.


	14. 13

North and west, to the furthest corner of the province. The soft swishing shores and rich wet fishy scents of Riften dwindled. The steam of sulfuric springs spread out along the path, tan and speckled with the stars of glowing insects after dark. Trees loomed black and thickened the air with spicy sap, snow fell and seared lungs in its icy frigidity, coated horse and khajiit with frost that gathered heavy in their fur. Plains iced over, dulled in the grip of the season and smelling of dormant promise. Wolves dogged the horse at a distance, howling shrilly, attracted by its scent but easily distracted when the clop of hooves startled deer noisily out of hiding. The territory slowly became less familiar as Ri'kel ventured onto new trails. Ears guided him along the path, but journeys off of it grew increasingly frequent, and the frost-hardened earth gradually began to sound less and less solid. Insects whirred. Moisture sharpened scents of rot, of plants, intensified the occasional bite of ice on the breeze. Upon nightfall, the sparks of bugs that Ri'kel so enjoyed hovered dreamily by his camp, and colorful northern auroras smeared the sky. He found himself praising Dibella for a world of such beauty.

Since he had left Riften, Ri'kel's prayers had grown more frequent. Once again he found himself on a pilgrimage to a great temple, the first since his migration to the avatar of Alkosh that brought him to the Imperial City that mere handful of fruitful years ago. This journey was not a young devotee's quest for adventure, this pilgrimage not to the temple of a single great god. A weightier trip he had never taken. With such desperate odds, Ri'kel needed all the help he could get. So he prayed to many of the divines, every word spoken with full sincerity and the wisp of hope that, should the gods hear him, they would be willing to come to a worshipper's aid. He also prayed to keep himself occupied. Should he turn to contemplation of his hopeless quest, every thought would plunge him further into the black void of despair. No matter what his thoughts, Ri'kel had pledged to find Jashri. It was a matter of comfort to keep his mind from becoming too idle.

Even so, when the auroras faded and night pressed in around him, sometimes he would falter and the tide of suppressed thoughts would come rushing in. Ri'kel blamed himself. He did not go to the tavern with Jashri on that fateful night. He was too harsh with him when he hid in the woods. He waited too long to start searching; he paid to much attention to the business; he never questioned the watch captain at the border; he rested too often, he spent too much time directing the horse back onto the road, he had not worked hard enough Zenithar would not help him he would never find his brother –

When he caught himself, he took a deep breath and focused his whole mind on trying to find constellations in the blurred black of the sky and would end up falling asleep, wearing out his mind with the effort to pinpoint even a single star.

The insect sounds of the moist marsh were swallowed by the roar of a river, plunging over uneven bed, its icy spray so chilled by the frigid air that breathing it was like inhaling scores of tiny knives. Glad that the horse was intelligent enough not to step off into a chasm, Ri'kel could relax his ears as he traversed the bridge over the river. It echoed and thundered within the canyon that contained it, rushing to the sea far, far below. A small town perched upon the lip of the gorge, providing a comfortable night's rest after days of camping and shivering on the cold earth. In the inn Ri'kel checked the tiny lines of his little parchment map; the small town was not marked like the great cities were, so he made a guess as to where he was and ended up heartened by the comparatively short distance that remained. Only the gods knew how far he would have to go to find his brother after he reached the temple.

Ri'kel had awakened early, the night still black around him, and set off once more without waiting for daybreak. The city was so near, and his thoughts so troubled, that he could not stop thinking long enough to get back to sleep. The sounds of the shipyard soon reached him over the rush of river and the clop of hooves. Foggy marine layer muffled the bells of the ships, swaying quietly on the water waiting for their crews as the palest touch of dawn smudged the horizon. Ri'kel heard chickens to his right, smelled rich hay and fertile soil and an ashy whiff of smoke from a fireplace. He led his horse up the path in the other direction; if his steed was meant to be stabled at the farm, the guards would wake care of it for him. The path tilted upward, stretched up a long hill, past a guard tower, past a gate drawn open by guards. They were quiet in the early morning, as if they had simply crawled out of bed and come to work, yawning away the last vestiges of their sleep. Chainmail clinked tranquilly. The sea swished against the cliffs far behind. The peaceful atmosphere did little to calm Ri'kel; despite his meager rest, he was awake and alert with purpose.

"Sir, please get off your horse, we'll bring it down to the stable for you." The drowsy voice was nonetheless loud and clear, and Ri'kel acquiesced, wincing inwardly as his stiff legs protested the sudden contact with the ground. He hobbled around a bit, relieving the horse of the few things he wished to take with him and trying to restore blood flow back to his legs. The guard who had spoken led the horse, which obediently allowed itself to be directed, down the path, leaving Ri'kel with another guard who opened the great city doors for him without saying a word.

Within, the streets were as silent as without. Air wafted down from the highest reaches of the tall city, drawing along with it the scents of warm chimney fires, wintry weather, and cooking breakfasts. A single person – a beggar, perhaps – shuffled about in the dark shadows cast by the buildings, scrounging for something. Guards stood still as statues; if it were not for the splashes of colorful fabric in their uniforms, they would meld seamlessly with the stone walls. He noticed a surprising many of them, streaks of red among the gray. Perhaps more than necessary.

Signs hung from many of the buildings, creaking in the gentle morning breeze. Ri'kel's soft footsteps sounded unusually loud on the bumpy cobbles of the street, empty and lined with echoing structures. He approached the nearest, drawing close to read the sign; an inn or tavern. With any luck, open and with rooms for rent. The door swung open easily, giving little resistance and breathing out a welcoming swirl of warmth. It shut just as smoothly behind as Ri'kel stepped inside, welcomed by the low murmuring conversations of early breakfasters. A fire popped and crackled in the hearth, lighting the room with a flickering glow and providing the warmth that was comfortably contained by the building's insulating walls. Making his way further into the cozy room, he was glad that the wooden floor kept the sound of his footsteps reasonably soft, the other patrons undisturbed by his intrusion. Behind a small counter, a man cracked eggs and sliced meat into a dark iron pot, movements somewhat sluggish, suggesting sleepiness. "Excuse me?" Ri'kel tried to keep his voice low. The man paused and turned in the khajiit's direction, waiting expectantly for him to say more. "Do you rent out rooms here?"

"There's one available." The man turned back to his work and spoke into the pot as he added ingredients. "Ten gold a night, take it or leave it."

"It seems like it is always ten gold a night," mused Ri'kel, gently placing coins onto the counter without making too much noise or letting them ring together. A soft sound that may have indicated amusement was projected into the pot, the contents of which the man prodded at with a spoon in one hand, swapping the coins for a key with the other. "It's a convenient number," he casually replied. "You'll want the first door." The non-spoon hand waved in the direction of said door.

Bobbing his head and muttering his thanks, Ri'kel gathered the key and hastened to the rented room. He hardly bothered to inspect it, noticing only the faint scents of paper, wax, and cloth before his few items were deposited on the little bed and the door shut and locked behind him. Not even the innkeeper, now absorbed in cooking the pot over the fire, acknowledged his presence as he retraced his path back through the main room and emerged back onto the cold cobbled streets of Solitude.

Each step still sounded loud, echoing around Ri'kel before fading into the muffling fog. He kept his pace slow to appease tired legs. Everything smelled wet, faintly salty, the moisture leaching small scents out of the stone walls, small cascades of moss, wooden signs and framing. The buildings around the inn seemed to be shops, like a tiny Market District. Around a corner were even a few wooden stalls, a smallish merchant already setting up displays at once of them despite the earliness of the morning. Ri'kel walked for several more minutes before realizing he had no idea where the temple stood within the city. He paused, glanced around, sought the splash of color that indicated the presence of a guard. None. More slowly, he headed back the way he came, scrutinizing the walls for someone able to point him in the right direction.

Fortunately he did not have to backtrack long, the abundant city guardsmen being easy to locate, and soon discovered that he had been walking in the wrong direction, having overlooked a flight of stairs that, to his eyes, had simply blended into wall. The fog began to burn away as the sun rose further into the sky, glowing behind its fragile curtain. Once he knew of their existence, locating the stairs posed no challenge, though ascending them kindled a dull burn in the muscles of his thighs. The stairs peaked beside a forge, a smith already stoking the fire for the day's work. A faint sweaty scent drifted from him, the heat of the forge fending off the cold.

Ri'kel slipped down an alleyway beside the smith's store, discovered a courtyard containing guards, several halfheartedly training on targets and practice dummies while others milled about or set off purposefully to their posts. Carefully, he skirted the training area, running his fingers gently against the walls so as to avoid getting in the way and, hopefully, discover the temple more easily than simply looking for it. Passing a large passageway with a road leading through it, he soon found a small arch, a little courtyard lined with benches. Pressing open the heavy wooden door set into the opposite wall, Ri'kel gently stepped inside.

Quietly the door tapped shut against the stone wall and silence rang through the temple. Columns stood solidly upon the smooth floor, reaching heavenward from their bases on Mundus to brush the lofty ceiling. Plants, books, benches adorned the airy room, arranged and tidied in godly neatness. In shadowed corners, stairs stretched to the second level, which peered out over the main chamber like the balcony of a king's palace. All the room was softly shadowed save for the wide far end of the temple, which curved into a round, smooth tower. Many windows opened high upon the wall, heavenly golden light streaming down and pooling in the tower's perfect circular center. Ri'kel slowly, reverently stepped towards the glowing cascade, his gentle footstep loud against the hard floor.

"Welcome, child." The voice was a soft whisper, frail and delicate as aged parchment, and it belonged to a wispy-haired old woman who soundlessly brushed a broom against the spotless floor. He inclined his head to her, feeling that his hash khajiiti accent could only mar the tranquility of the temple. She seemed to pay him no mind, the broom moving against stone with only the slightest of sounds. Ri'kel continued forward to the light.

He stopped in the center of the sunbeams, sinking to his knees. The cold tile of the floor seeped in through the thin fabric covering his legs. His thin fingers drew the chain of his amulet over his head, brushing against his ears. The steel was warm. Long had it nestled in the soft fur of his neck and chest. He cupped it within his hands, bending over it, his head down in reverence, in deference to the divines. Motes of soft white dust danced, remarkably, in his vision before he closed his eyes and relaxed his ears. His tail curled loosely on the stone behind him, winding past the halo of light and brushing the gentle, worldly shadow. He drew a long, gentle breath, setting his mind to silence.

All was silence. Never had Ri'kel been in a place so quiet, surrounded by only the sound of his own calm breathing, the rustle of his clothing, the swish of his heartbeat. He shifted his hands and the chain gave a muted chiming. But for his sounds, none existed. Emptiness, vast emptiness, pressed upon his ears. No scents perfumed the room. He had never felt so very, truly alone. He did not wish to be alone. The grip of his hands tightened on the amulet, chain whispering across the metal of the medallion.

 _Zenithar?_

His fur fluffed involuntarily, a chill running along his spine. His eyes tried to spring open, but he resisted, held them tightly closed. Had he felt a presence brushing against his senses? Nothing changed in the silent room, save the sound of his breath had become louder, trembling. Willing his fur to smooth, his heart to stop racing, he subsided back into serene reverence, readying his prayers.

 _Zenithar, this servant of yours has worked long and hard for what he seeks._ The hairs on his neck and spine crept up once more, and he fought to stay composed and calm. _He has traveled far and looked carefully, and now he seeks guidance. No more ideas come to mind, all the leads are followed, and I am left with empty hands_ He had relaxed quickly; whatever he felt soothed him. It felt watchful, powerful, knowing, like a protective guardian watching over a child. The young khajiit continued to pray. _Have I not worked hard enough? Have I not done all I can? A hint is all I need to continue the work you set out for me. I wish to finish the challenge I have been given. In my service to myself I serve Zenithar. I serve all the divines, who give me the mind and spirit to live upon this plane. Please, divines, guide me on my quest._

As he prayed, projected his thoughts to the heavens, he felt other presences around him. All of them felt different, all nonthreatening. _Please help me find my brother Jashri._ Whatever was in the room with him felt knowing, reassuring. He waited, head bowed, eyes shut, hands wrapped around his amulet, but no revelations came to him. His heart and mind were opened as he could make them. He ran through his experiences, his feelings, his thoughts, but still he learned nothing new. Slowly he became aware of pain in his knees, his folded legs prickling beneath him and sore from the long contact with the stone tiles of the floor. With a brief prayer to the glory of the divines, the feeling of other presences fading, he finished his askance and allowed his eyes to slide open. His hands slipped the amulet once more around his neck, and he stiffly stood.

The room was still brightly lit by the shafts of sunlight that pierced the windows, the edges of the tower deep in shadow. Things glinted in the darkness and Ri'kel stepped closer, his steps echoing in the high-ceilinged room. Shrines. There was the helm of Kynareth, the cross of Talos, the anvil of Zenithar. He set several coins atop the shrine to Zenithar, certain to take them from his original supply and not those given by Devinn. The spoils of his hard work would perhaps convince the god to send him a sign. Giving a respectful bow to the little statue, he walked along the edge of the tower in shadow to make his way to the door.

As he reached the last pair of aspiring columns, a wispy voice called out to him, the tone kindly. The old woman leaned against the broom, clutching it like a walking stick and using it as a support. "Is this your first visit to the temple?"

Unsure if he wanted to remain and speak within the temple, but set at ease by the friendliness of the old temple manager, he stayed, nodding quietly. He was close enough to the woman to see that her eyes were slightly clouded with age. "Magnificent, isn't it? Some say the further north you go, the closer you get to the divines. I say the divines are everywhere, but there are few places quiet enough to truly speak to them. They can hear you here, I think. It's the silence. Solitude is a fitting name for this town."

Ri'kel nodded once more, softly cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice smooth. "I have never been in such a temple. It is very peaceful and well maintained."

"It's the the best there is. Have you been to many other temples?"

"Yes; in Cyrodiil, where I live, there are many. They are grand in other ways, but none are like this. I have also visited the Temple of Mara, in Riften. That is where I learned of this place."

"Cyrodiil? Surely you have seen Akatosh?"

"He was what brought me to Cyrodiil, on pilgrimage from Elsweyr. He is very grand."

"I saw Akatosh when I was young. He has great power, but it would be hard to speak to the other divines at his temple. Did you find here what you seek?"

"Not yet. If I do not, I may have to return to Cyrodiil."

"I hope you plan to stay a while, Cyrodiil is a long way off, and before you leave, you should at least visit the festival."

"Festival?"

"Yes. Tonight is the Bards College's Burning of King Olaf festival. You may as well see a Skyrim tradition while you wait for the answers you seek."

"Perhaps I will," Ri'kel mused. "Thank you, you are very kind."

"Enjoy yourself." The woman's delicate voice drifted after him as he moved toward the door. "Divines' blessings." He nodded, gave her a faint smile, and let himself out.

The smile slid from his face as the peace of the temple no longer surrounded him and the full force of his slightly subdued worries flooded back. His worship, his last resort; how long would he have to wait for a sign? Would he get a sign? The most troubling thought: had he failed? With this last chance used, perhaps now he had no chance at all. His head and shoulders drooped under the weight of his heavy thoughts. He picked his way through the streets until he found the inn, drifting through a haze of lunch patrons on the way to his room. The door that once would have seemed to block out all noise sounded paper-thin after the silence of the temple. Ri'kel sat on the bed, his thoughts wandering, amulet once more in his hands, thumbs tracing the ridges and swirls on the smooth metal. He procured quill, ink, and paper from his bundle of things and tried to write letters, but his mind was devoid of any useful, reassuring thoughts to set down on the paper, and eventually he gave up attempting to be productive and simply sat and waited for the night, when he could lose himself and temporarily free his worries in the festivities.


	15. 14

The late afternoon sun slipped behind the mountains behind Solitude, only the orange glow of its setting lighting the landscape. The courtyard before the Bards College was in the process of being lit by a similar glow as colorfully dressed bards swooped about lighting scores of lamps and torches that clung to stony walls. It was much more festive than the previous day; the hard work of the college's many students had decorated the space with bright streamers, plants, and lanterns. A dozen cobbled-together stalls clustered along the wall of a building opposite the college, their occupants preparing pastries and special drinks and highly anticipating nightfall, when the party was expected to be in full swing. Plain wooden tables had been set out, several of them built from scratch the day before, for the pleasure of those who wished to eat and drink. Clumps of performers rehearsed, tuned instruments in general merriment. The atmosphere was infectious.

Braedal, already quite excited at the prospect of becoming a bard and thrilled to be at a festival, reverted quickly to the mischievous, outgoing disposition Jashri had first seen him in. It suited him. His face was permanently plastered with the wide white grin, contrasting dark eyes sparking and glittering with excitement and the reflections of the colorful lanterns. He laughed, talked with students, his movements full of energy. Jashri even saw him stand on his head for an admiring group of musicians; remarkably, not a thing fell from his pockets. But, even with the new, much more interesting surroundings, Braedal always returned to Jashri, spoke to him, tried to convince him to join in meeting and entertaining their soon-to-be classmates. He refused this cajoling, encouraging the elf to socialize on his own. It was something Jashri would not have done before.

He had been feeling strange since getting to Solitude. Perhaps it was the gloomy weather, or the lack of travel, or the walled closed-in feeling of the city, but none of those seemed the problem. As a result, he felt puzzled and troubled, discontent. He chalked it up to anticipation and nerves at joining the college, but the thought lacked conviction. It made it very difficult for the khajiit to enjoy himself. Perhaps after a few hours of festivities, he would feel better. As he waited for the official start of the festival, he loitered near the food stalls and breathed in the delectable scents of meats and sweets and pies.

The small figure of the bosmer detached himself from a cluster of bards and trotted to Jashri's side. "They asked about you," he said, slightly winded from all the talking he was doing. "Some of them have never seen a khajiit before, can you believe that? One hadn't even met a bosmer! They were mostly newer students, hadn't done much traveling yet."

"What did you tell them about me?"

Braedal shrugged. "Not much. That you came from Cyrodiil, not a caravan, and plan on joining the college with me. They did want to meet you, but I told them not to bother you and they were disappointed. If you want to talk to them, they'd be delighted."

"I'll consider it."

"You should. Might cheer you up. Oh, they also told me the festival should be starting in a few minutes."

It did. A loud-voiced man announced the beginning of the festivities, and a little band of flutes, lutes, and a single drum began piping out an energetic tune. People cheered and sang, groups whirled in brightly colored, spinning dance in the open spaces of the courtyard, and lights in several residences across the street were extinguished as their owners ambled over to join the fun. The glow of the sun was very faint on the western horizon, stars pricked at the velvet sky.

Jashri blinked at the sudden activity, unable to decide what to focus on. He could see the whole courtyard as clearly as day with the amount of lights brightening the place, wondered how it looked to the humans and elves, lacking night vision. Braedal excused himself, grinning apologetically as a member from one of the groups he had spoken to earlier beckoned him over. Jashri turned to the stalls of food; lines had already gathered in front of every one. They moved quickly, and soon he found himself lounging on a bench against the wall, nibbling at strings of red candy unlike anything he had seen or tasted before, pleasantly distracted from his worries. He'd had enough of worries.

"Jashri, you can't just sit around here all evening." Braedal's laugh was musical, like the pipes in the background. "Come on, dance a little bit. The night is young. This is your chance to loosen up and have fun before we start training." He offered a brown hand to help Jashri off his bench and into the crowd. Jashri took it, and soon he found himself in a crowd of churning, dancing people, bright lanterns twirling around him as he spun and stamped his feet and clapped. Clapped at the end of each song, clapped to the beat of he music, clapped to try to enjoy himself. It was working. The corners of his lips lifted as he spun people he had never met, exchanged small talk with others as the bands switched.

"See, Jashri, this was a good idea," Braedal loudly remarked as he passed by, dancing with a short, pretty, and slightly intoxicated nord girl. Braedal was a good dancer, his feet going through the steps effortlessly even as he spoke. "Happiness suits you. I don't think I've ever seen you smiling before. Looks natural on you. You ought to try it more often!" Before Jashri could respond, the elf had whirled away again, back into the sea of people. He was surprised. Had he really not smiled around Braedal?

Then again, he wondered, suddenly conscious of the weak cheerfulness of his expression, was he truly smiling now? People swapped partners, and this train of thought broke as his new partner accidentally trod on one of his feet when he moved a bit too slowly. Soon he was only absorbed in dancing once again, dazzled by light and sound and motion.

* * *

No one was in the inn and it was strange. The main fire burned low in the hearth, all the wall torches extinguished, and a scrap of parchment on the innkeeper's counter explained that he had left for the festival. Ri'kel did the same, letting the door of the dark building slam behind him. The night was dark, but recently fallen, the moons not yet risen in the sky. Immediately upon emerging into the night, the sensitive khajiiti ears caught the high, light piping of flutes wavering through the air and followed the sound through the streets. They were empty and dim save from the red-uniformed guards. Suddenly their abundance made sense. More people would be in town for the festival, and extra people meant a need for extra security. He liked them. He felt safe.

The sound made a good guide. If Ri'kel were not concerned about trampling on people's small gardens, he could follow it with his eyes closed. They were little help anyway. Each turn of a corner yielded more of the music to his ears, adding lute and voice and drum. A hodgepodge of smells drifted along the streets from the same source, a mixture of sweet and smoky flavors of all types. Ri'kel was certain that if he had an appetite, his mouth would be watering. Despite his determination to let go of his troubles, they nagged persistently at his normally capable mind. He would be busily working if he only knew where he had to go. The annoyance caused him to flick his tail agitatedly behind him, but steadfastly he endeavored to keep his thoughts light. That proved difficult in the dark. Luckily it only took several minutes of walking before he could make out the glow of the large party in the distance. Each step made the sound ever louder, the food scent ever stronger. He hoped they hadn't gotten to the historical part yet.

The cool air was suddenly much warmer upon entering the courtyard filled with light, the hot flames of lanterns and the warmth of so many active bodies heating the air to the point that it almost eradicated the northern chill. After several moments standing beside the entry to the small area, Ri'kel would have welcomed some northern chill – the combination of light, sound, color, and smell overpowered him after the long walk in the dark. None of it, however, struck him as unpleasant. The food smelled excellent, the music incredible, the color festive, and the light welcoming.

Queuing for a drink, he admired the surroundings as best he could, the length of the line allowing ample time to do so. Upon examining the bards around him, Ri'kel was impressed by their intricate and boldly dyed garb. His own pale red, though his favorite color, seemed dull and pitiful by comparison. The presence of other dully clothed outsiders was encouraging.

Finally managing to collect his drink, he hurried to an empty table far from the refreshments, where a cool breeze managed to leak in through an overlook a short distance away, and settled down to relax and watch the dancers. He sniffed at his drink. It gave off a sweet, tangy scent not unlike wine, but stranger, more exotic. He supposed it was made with a northern berry. A sip assured him that it was unlike anything he had ever tasted, and quite excellent. Leaning back in the wooden chair, he distracted himself by training his eyes on the open space available for dancing. Color rioted within the space, the garish outfits of bards stirring with the less exciting hue of visitors. He could not pick out individuals, he could not guess how many people were in the mass – his best guess was "many" – but the swirling patterns were calming and mesmerizing, thoroughly enjoyable to a mind busy attempting to forget.

* * *

Jashri panted as a rollicking piece ended, bowing to his partner with a light smile as he applauded the performers and tried to catch his breath. A stitch knotted in his side, and he leaned his hands on his knees to breathe. Others seemed tired, too, smooth-skinned humans wiping sweat from their shiny faces. Those who were left were quickly replaced by latecomers to the party or those who had simply waited to dance. Leather boots stepped into Jashri's view of the ground and he gave a soft, breathless chuckle. He would know those boots anywhere. "Tired?" He straightened back up to look the bosmer in the face. Braedal's black eyes glinted facetiously.

"Yeah," panted the khajiit, "just a bit. I shouldn't have eaten right before dancing."

"I was thinking about getting off the dance floor, too." Jashri could see no reason why, the bosmer was hardly even winded. "It's getting a bit warm because of all the lights." Jashri nodded; he too was getting somewhat uncomfortable under his thick pelt.

"Let's go over there." He turned to a sort of balcony overlooking the northern sea, nearly empty and barely lit, the shadow appearing cool and welcoming. With Braedal's agreement, the two wove their way through the crowd, which was beginning to move once more as the next song began, and left the yellow glare of the myriad torches to rest under the pale light of the moons.

Jashri leaned on the edge of the balcony, gazing down at the rippling water far, far below the arch of Solitude. Moonlight shimmered silvery upon the surface. He tried to ignore the stitch in his side, willing it to subside. The annoyance wiped the frail smile from his face and some of the euphoria from his spirit. Braedal leaned on the balcony beside him, gazing out over the water at the horizon. He seemed perfectly calm and content, his enthusiastic grin danced down to a warm, satisfied smile. Jashri's tail swished. He liked to see his friend happy almost as much as he liked to smile. Not just usual happy – the journey had been long and tough, and the elf usually cheerful – but really, truly filled with joy. It took Jashri a moment to register his own thoughts. He had been very distrustful of Braedal, but the bosmer had really grown on him, in spite of the misunderstandings along the way. "Hey, Braedal?"

"Hmm?" Curiosity mixed with the contentment in the elf's eyes.

"I remember you said something, once, about thinking you had a friend again. You do." Braedal was silent for a moment, his already large eyes widening slightly. "Does that mean. . ?"

"I trust you?" Jashri nodded gently. "Yeah, I guess it does."

An enormous smile split the brown face, so genuine that Jashri looked back down at the water in embarrassment, certain that his face was bright red under his fur. Braedal's voice was hushed and touched when he spoke again.

"Thank you, Jashri. That means a lot to me. I've wanted a friend for a very long time." The khajiit could find nothing to respond with, and the bosmer seemed to think nothing necessary. Chilly ocean breezes tousled fur and hair and little by little swept away the lingering warmth from the dance floor. The little cramp in Jashri's side ached dully.

He glanced up as Braedal straightened, no longer leaning on the wide stone balcony. The elf still smiled broadly, but not embarrassingly so. "I'm going to get a drink, dancing left me parched. Do you want one, too?"

Jashri ran his tongue along his lips; his mouth was indeed quite dry. "Sure, that'd be great, thanks."

"It's nothing at all," fluted Braedal, his voice lifting cheerfully. The elf's footsteps melded into the racket of the celebrating crowd, and Jashri was alone. The cold breeze swiped at the fluff growing along his jaws, made him shiver. He sighed, directing his gaze to the moons pinned up in the sky. If he didn't look at the walls around him, didn't look at the icy sea or the frosted roofs of houses, he could almost imagine he were somewhere warmer, more familiar. Like Cyrodiil.

He knew why he felt strange, and any vestiges of his smile melted from his face. Solitude was almost just like the Imperial City. It had a market, the market had little stalls from an overflow of merchants. It had walls – they were gray, but they were tall and protecting and confining. It had water nearby, and the faint smells of it drifted into the city. There were even a few imperials. It was just like home, but wrong and different. Different because, even with Braedal's friendship, he felt very alone.

* * *

A fiddling flourish ended an energetic song. After a sip from his cup, Ri'kel added his own light applause to the wild cheers and claps from the appreciative dance crowd. He licked droplets of the strange wine from his whiskers; they had grown long enough to sometimes get in the way of eating and drinking. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows brushing the table, as another song began, less furious than the previous, and worked to let himself relax, tried to take in the excellent music as he raised his drink to his lips once more. His eyes slid over the crowd, marveling at the variety of color, and what caught his eye next caused him to gasp sharply, inhaling and gagging on a sip of the sweet liquid.

Several figures had detached themselves from the crowd, and one wore blue clothing, a tail peeking out and ears atop its head. Drink burned in Ri'kel's nose and throat, but he made no move to soothe them, so stunned was he by the sight. As his hand crept once more for the drink, he wondered if it could be causing hallucinations. He let the hand fall to rest against the table, blinked, looked again. Still there. Leaning against the wall next to a smaller, shorter figure. If they were speaking, the words were lost as they drifted into the music-filled courtyard. Never in his life had Ri'kel wanted to approach someone more, but he held himself back, his mind reactivated and churning. If his brother thought he was still angry, misunderstood his intentions. . . no, without any idea of what to expect, he hesitated to risk it.

Luckily, the smaller figure began to move towards the refreshments and, in turn, towards Ri'kel. His table stood right in the most direct line from the balcony to the wooden food stalls. As he came closer, the khajiit could make out long pointed ears – elven. He saw the elf freeze in his tracks, turn and look to the other khajiit leaning against the wall and then back to Ri'kel. His heart leapt. The guard at the border had mentioned a "small elven lad" traveling with a light-colored khajiit, and here was a small elf doing a double-take at the sight of Ri'kel. Young ideas, their edges rough, quickly began to take shape in his mind. The elf neared the khajiit's table – had to, it was along the path to the vendors – and before he could truly think his ideas through, Ri'kel found himself beckoning the young man over.

With a glance in the other khajiit's direction, the elf settled himself awkwardly into the chair opposite Ri'kel. So near, the khajiit could make out facial features. A wide mouth, small nose, tanned skin, large black eyes. Although not particularly adept at guessing races, he supposed the elf was bosmeri. He seemed perhaps surprised, confused. Ri'kel swallowed to quell the burn of his choked-on wine and began to speak. "You are traveling with that khajiit, yes?" He saw the elf jump slightly at the rough khajiiti accent. The elf's own voice seemed guarded.

"Yes. . ."

"He has mentioned having a brother?"

"Once or twice. . ."

"That is who I am." Ri'kel's heart raced. His brother, sought so long and so far, a short walk away from where he now sat. But without that brother's respect, his efforts could be in vain. "What name did he call me?"

"A name? He didn't. . . well, he did give a name once. . ." The bosmer trailed off, appeared to think for a moment, though his eyes darted to where the other pale khajiit lounged against the wall. "Ri'kel?"

Relief flooded through his frayed nerves and soothed his raw anxiety, and he resisted the urge to shout his joy. There was hope if Jashri still respected him enough to call him Ri'kel. "Thank you, bosmer. That is all I needed to know, you have been a great help." He expected the elf to rise and continue his quest for refreshment, but he did not. His black eyes flashed at the thanks and the muscles in his face tightened. "Hold on just a moment." The smooth elven voice seemed dangerously low, though still easy for Ri'kel's ears to pick up. "I don't know what you want with Jashri, but I'm not about to let you cause him any more grief. If you're thinking about trying to carry out justice and still trying to get him in jail, you can leave right now, because I'm not going to let you. He's suffered enough for his mistake."

Only the flick of his tail behind the chair betrayed Ri'kel's surprise at the confrontation.

"I agree. Do not worry, I mean my brother no harm."

The bosmer blinked. Surprised? "You'd better not." He rose and headed once more in the direction of the refreshments, melding into the lengthy queues. Ri'kel, too, rose, pouring the remainder of his drink into a plant and setting the container where it would be found. He knew he would not be able to drink it, his emotions running high enough that he would surely choke on even the smallest sip.

Time seemed to slow as he headed towards the balcony over the sea, walking in a dream. Each step lasted an age, met the ground soundlessly. Cooling sea breeze flowed around him as if he were a stone in a stream. Every step that drew him closer grew colder until finally he stood in a wind of ice and gazed at last upon the blue-clothed back of a khajiit nearly identical to himself.

* * *

"Jashri?"

All of the blue-robed khajiit's muscles solidified at the sound of the soft, tentative voice; ears stiffened, tail that swished only moments ago petrified still.

"I am sorry I was angry at you, Jashri." Ri'kel wanted to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder, reassure himself that he was not hallucinating, he was not in a dream, but he did not want to accidentally offend, to mar the chance he finally had to set things right.

The waves of Ri'kel's voice washed gently over the blue-clothed khajiit, his brain recovering from its initial shock and carefully trying to piece the situation together as Ri'kel continued to speak.

"I did not mean to snap at you, we were both tired and stubborn and scared."

Even though the last thing Jashri had heard from it was a threat, Ri'kel's voice was soothing, familiar. Homey.

"If you want to come back home, we will figure something out. I do not want you to have to suffer in prison. We will raise some money, pay off your bounty."

He was unsure what to feel. A tide of thoughts swirled within his head. Ri'kel? The shop? Cyrodiil?

"It's not the same without you, Jashri."

Silence stretched across the balcony. On one side hissed the sea, on the other roared the crowd, but strangely isolated was the stretch of dim-lit stone between. Jashri swallowed a lump of mixed feelings and unimportant thoughts that crept up his throat. "You left the shop behind to find me." The words came out in a breath of air, his voice hardly able to sound. He heard Ri'kel's clothes rustle behind him as he nodded and hissed a "yes." Jashri's tail waved slowly back and forth. "I've missed you, too, Ri'kel."

The next thing Jashri knew was his brother's arms around him in a much more powerful embrace than he'd ever have guessed Ri'kel capable of. His own arms wrapped his brother, the scrawny body warm against Solitude's chill. His lips pulled back and up into a real smile, one of those that he had not smiled in such a long time. There was no stitch in his side.

Ri'kel purred, despite the hard metal of his amulet digging into his chest. He was not dreaming. His hard work had paid off. He did not care what was happening at his shop in Cyrodiil. He did not care what happened in Elsweyr, or any other province, for that matter. All that mattered in the world was that Jashri wanted to come back.

The music began to die down, dancers clapped and cheered, Braedal returned with drinks and remarked on Jashri's smile. Lanterns were moved from the dance floor to the balcony, lighting a scroll for a wizened bard to read, to spin a story of dragons and wicked kings, and fire was set to a great effigy. The wood cracked as it burned, smelled sweetly of sharp, clean pine as whirls of smoke wafted to the heavens, losing themselves among the stars in the rich velvet sky.


	16. Epilogue

_4E 173, 4th Morning Star_

 _We have returned, and a most interesting journey it has been. Braedal is with us here for a few days, but he wishes to return to Skyrim to become a bard. Jashri does not seem entirely pleased by this. He has always been good at making friends, but Braedal is his closest. A most interesting elf. I am not yet sure what to make of him._

 _Moshil has proven her worth while we were away. The shop is still ours and she even managed to make a little bit of a profit. It appears my idea was successful, and we will be taking her on as our first employee. Several letters regarding the shop have been left for me, I will have them read within the week. Many other letters were received while we were away. I hope none of them are important._

 _I have asked the city not to send guards to watch the store anymore. Moshil costs less, is more effective, and is much more pleasant to work with. I am lucky to have a friend like her. She understands the need to save up for Jashri to be able to be a part of society again. He does not like staying in the house._

 _Even though he has to hide, it is nice to have my brother back. He seems pleased as well. He thinks it is his fault that we had this whole mess, but I know that if anyone is to take the blame, it is me. I believe the divines were testing us, and we passed. Zenithar knew my faith would lead me to the temple, and the woman there who sent me to the festival was my sign. The divines work in strange and wonderful ways. Gods willing, all will be peaceful now that we have completed our test._


End file.
